


And you may find yourself

by Teland



Series: love me 'til my heart stops [1]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Cunnilingus, Devotion, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, F/M, Face-Sitting, Facials, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Hopeful Ending, Kink Negotiation, Light Spanking, Manipulation, Obsession, Problematic Relationship Choices, Rimming, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Seduction, Stalking, Vaginal Sex, i mean i guess, lying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23011909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: "I knew -- from any number of sources, including my grandmothers -- that even in exquisitely-run mechanisms, even in exquisitely-run mechanisms with any number of *failsafes*, there will be... blind spots. Dark areas. Cracks through which the smallest of us can fall. I was small and I chose to walk in the dark... and so I fell."Michael growls -- "I do not accept the fatalism of that statement."Gabriel hums. "Nor do I -- ultimately," he says, and licks her temple.
Relationships: Michael Burnham/Gabriel Lorca | Mirror Gabriel Lorca, Mirror Michael Burnham/Gabriel Lorca | Mirror Gabriel Lorca
Series: love me 'til my heart stops [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661998
Comments: 40
Kudos: 32





	1. There are words for this.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [demigodscum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/demigodscum/gifts), [the_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not even close to mine.
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: Many, many references to assorted things from S1 -- some of which have been worked through the AU filter. 
> 
> Author's Note: So, I wasn't ready to watch Discovery when it first started airing a few years ago. I wasn't ready to watch *anything* a few years ago, really. Still -- when people started telling me little tidbits about DSC? I knew I'd be on it like butter on a biscuit *eventually*. 
> 
> And here we are. Does it help that, these days, I'm a walking pile of emotional wreckage?
> 
> Doesn't it *always*?
> 
> Acknowledgments: My forever love and gratitude to my little love Pixie, who waited patiently for me to find my way back to the Trek side of things. Much adoration and *abject* gratitude to demigodscum and, or course, my Jack for squee, encouragement, catching my failures, forcing me to speak *a* language, throwing things at me, and, in general, keeping me going.

Gabriel lies back on another man's bed, in another man's quarters, on another man's *ship*, in another man's *life*, et cetera, et cetera, world without end... 

The laughter that makes it out of his mouth is hollow. 

The smile on his face is, he knows from experience with mirrors just lately, worse. 

That won't do. 

He is here, in the belly of the warmest, fuzziest beast of all, for a reason. 

He will *not* be here forever -- his destiny won't have it -- but. 

Those *words* will be as empty and noxious as a fart in a turbolift if he doesn't get his head in the game. He may not be in the Empire --where every slip, every failure to remain *alert*, is an invitation for the blade -- *but*. 

He is not where he belongs, for all that this * _Discovery_ * -- a ship which, by rights, shouldn't have been in the hands of *any* Gabriel Lorca -- has the best possible chance to... 

Well. 

One day, his secret will be known -- it has to be, for his plans to come to fruition. Just the same, the knowledge must come on his own schedule, not the schedule of his megrims, his irritation, his boredom, or -- his loneliness. 

He grits his teeth and gets *off* the bed before any ghosts can find him there, before -- 

But she's there, of course. 

Michael, and there's a twisted gratitude to Philippa for how and *when* she'd chosen to carry out her vengeance. 

Gabriel and Michael had been well and truly fucked-out when their compound got strafed to rubble, out of the bed -- 

Out, *out* of the bedroom -- 

Gabriel walks into the Captain's sterile little closet of a bathroom and just -- looks. 

There's no rubble here. 

No twisted machinery falling in from all sides. 

No blood soaking the tub, the floor -- 

Spilling down the floor-drain when the tub finally cracks -- 

When his throat cracks from the scream he can't, he can't, he *can't* -- 

He'd been a fool, of course. 

He'd honestly believed -- both of them had, truly -- that Philippa would stay her hand against Michael -- and, by extension, Gabriel -- until -- 

At the *very* least -- 

She could give things the... personal touch. 

Gabriel had, after all, been her right hand for years. The one Philippa had *chosen* to complete Michael's education in all the many little things the heir to a galactic throne must know. 

And Michael had never, ever, *ever* been anyone but the Emperor's daughter. 

Certainly, people who raised questions about who Michael's birth-parents had been -- and what had become of them -- didn't tend to last long in the Empire. 

*Anywhere* in the Empire. And -- 

Gabriel stops. 

Just -- stops. 

Stands straight. 

Adjusts his -- mildly -- rumpled uniform. 

Refuses to allow himself to check the placement, charge, and readiness of all the weapons a *Starfleet* captain would be considered dangerously outré -- at *best* -- to actually carry on their person at all times. 

He does not grit his teeth -- much. 

Much. 

But, still, when he calls up a mirror to check his expression, it's... fucked beyond all reason. 

In the Empire, Landry would've taken one look at him, snorted in that utterly humorless way of hers, kicked open his liquor cabinet in her uniquely unsubtle version of a hint, and then made a point of making herself scarce while he put his head back on straight. 

Landry -- his Landry -- knew it would never be too *much* whiskey before he was settled enough in his own skin to do something a lot more productive with his time... and almost certainly someone else's, too. 

Michael liked the smell of it on his breath, liked the way it made him -- she said -- that much lazier. 

A lion for the pride to provide for. 

Not that she would share her kills with him, per *se*...

Not *all* the time --

Gabriel deals with the fact that he's squeezing his eyes shut -- again -- by *stopping*. 

He deals with the fact that he'd already gotten this universe's Landry killed by -- 

By -- 

There's no blood in this room. 

Michael has never been here, alive or dead. 

He doesn't have to piss, or shit, or depilate. 

He doesn't have to shower -- and he never takes baths anymore.

He leaves. 

He paces his quarters. 

He gets himself a tumbler of another man's whiskey and does not, does *not* throw it at a wall when it tastes perfect and correct. 

He doesn't -- 

He stops, because he's *not* an animal in a cage, and the fact that the Landry from this universe is dead is -- meaningless. 

She wasn't his, not in any way. 

The tilt of her head, her smirk, her barely-leashed violence -- 

That wasn't his. That belonged to another man, to whom she had been, apparently, just as fanatically loyal as his own -- but.

No. 

No. 

The _Discovery_ hadn't belonged to this Lorca; he knows that. 

Landry hadn't ever been anyone but -- his. 

Landry hadn't -- 

He can't do this. 

There are words for what he's doing to himself right now. Empire words. 

None of them are polite. 

All of them are a prelude to an *ignominious* -- and painful -- fatality. 

So. It's time to do something about his problem. To... hm. 

Approach the matter like the warrior he is. 

Like the *predator* he is, perhaps. 

Would you like that, Michael? My teeth in the throat of this soft little universe?

I'd bring the beast down for *us*... and punish you in every way you *loved* every time you tried to take it away from me. 

This time, her smile is the only thing he can see. 

The canines she occasionally sharpened ever so slightly...

Not enough to be gauche -- barely enough to be *noticeable*. Most people -- Gabriel is certain of this -- assumed it to be a quirk of genetics. Her smiles didn't come often enough for anyone in their circle to be entirely certain, one way or another.

And then... 

Oh, and then she would make her finishing moves... visceral. 

Philippa had yanked her leash for that... oh, years ago now. Assassins learned to poison themselves virulently when they came for Michael, making the gamble that, if they failed to kill her, *they'd* be killed painfully anyway, so why *not* risk a painful death of their own choosing for the *chance* to take down the heir apparent...?

In this moment, in the dark of another man's quarters, Gabriel lifts his hand to caress the ghost of his lover, his protégé, his -- 

But she's not the ghost his hand passes through. 

The other is there. 

The... 

And, perhaps, it's time for him to get to the point. 

Michael -- no. *Burnham* had been visibly shaken when she'd reported to him about the circumstances of Landry's death. 

She'd also been clear, clipped, and matter-of-fact. 

She hadn't spared one *moment* to invite false guilt upon herself. 

She hadn't spared one moment for fear of what could be done to her, by him, on this ship of people who loathe her. 

Not that Starfleet is like that... but. 

Still. 

"I see you," he says, to the ghost in -- *his* quarters, damnit. His, and -- he won't be -- 

He won't fuck himself up this way. 

"I see you," he says, again, and downs the whiskey, and sets the empty tumbler down gently, and -- 

Admits a few things. 

Owns them. 

Makes them his.

"Computer, begin recording," he says, and stares into the wide, despoiled eyes of his ghosts. "You're never going to be her. You're never going to be... her. You can't be. But I'm going to help you, Burnham," he says, and smiles enough that it hurts on his face. "In fact... I think I need to work on your lesson plan..." 

He takes a deep breath -- 

He stretches and does a slow turn, taking in the modestly luxurious expanse of -- his quarters. 

His. 

*His*. 

"Computer, end recording."


	2. This is definitely coping.

"The interesting thing, Burnham," Gabriel says, sitting down on the side of the tub with a whiskey just as soon as the computer is recording, and gesturing to the bleeding ghost no one but him can see. "She didn't see her death coming.

"*Neither* of us saw her death coming.

"Do you understand that? 

"Can you? 

"Can you understand the *sin* of that?" 

Gabriel frowns at the un-bloodied ghost kneeling before him. "I don't think you can. Let me..." 

Gabriel stands and moves to the bedroom -- 

The sitting room -- 

The bedroom again. 

Here.

Here. "One day, Burnham, I'm going to give you the chance to talk to Philippa again. She won't be yours -- though you just might want her to be. You've got enough guilt for that, I think. Perhaps enough love, too. 

"You loved her very much, I think. You...

"But she *wasn't* your adopted mother. You were -- 

"*Vulcans* of all things -- no, no, not right --" 

Gabriel growls, downs his whiskey -- 

Paces -- 

Stops. "My Michael. My Princess. My love. She was Philippa's daughter from the beginning. She was -- would you have liked that? You'll tell me one day. 

"In any event, Philippa snatched her up out of the wreckage of a regrettable... incident, healed her wounds, cleaned her up, raised her and trained her -- the personal touch all the way..." 

Gabriel pauses and studies the ghost of Burnham. 

Her attentive gaze becomes a carefully-respectful frown, becomes irritation, becomes banked rage, becomes absolute *Vulcan* inscrutability. Yes, that. 

"You think -- you would think, and, perhaps, you *will* think -- that I mean to offend your sensibilities, Burnham. I do not. 

"I mean, only, to make you think of the possibilities. To guide you into imagining something that you have, perhaps -- perhaps? -- not." 

The ghost attempts to give him more inscrutability, but the rage is -- oh, so...

"I see you, Burnham. I've *seen* you. And I --" Gabriel growls and shakes his head once. "No. This: Philippa, to the best of my knowledge -- and my best is very good indeed -- never did cross that particular line with you. She wished a daughter from you, and that's what she was bound and determined to *have*. 

"Michael -- my Michael -- and I discussed the matter any number of times. Philippa refused to be named Empress, you know. I've read of female rulers like that among the peoples of your Federation -- mostly among the ancient peoples who were afflicted with universally fatal cases of sexism. 

"*We* are not afflicted with anything of the kind. Nor was Philippa in any fundamental doubt of her gender. But... she rose as she raised *Michael*. And I'll be damned if she figured out whether she wanted to be Michael's mother or *father* before she took the throne. 

"I'll be damned if she *ever* figured that little wrinkle out." 

Gabriel licks his lips and pours another glass. "Maybe if she had, she wouldn't have killed Michael, mm?"

The ghost flinches for that, and Gabriel -- can't. 

"Computer, stop recording."


	3. No accidents.

The living, breathing, sweating Burnham steps out of the simulation room in her simple, plain workout clothes. 

She's distracted enough that she nearly barrels directly into Gabriel's chest, and this is by no means an accident. 

There are no accidents at this hour of the night. 

"Oh -- sir. I apologize --" 

"At ease, Burnham," he says, and smiles... ruefully, before nodding at the simulation input. "Klingon battle scenario red-alpha? At this hour?"

She all but comes to attention -- and looks over his shoulder. "I believe we all must be prepared --" 

"At ease, I said. Tell me why you're not sleeping." 

A slight narrowing of her eyes -- 

A hint of tension at the join of her throat and shoulder -- 

"Or," he says, drawing it out a little, "you could tell me why you'd like to lie to me right now." 

*That* makes her eyes widen... like a child's. 

Gabriel laughs delightedly and -- lets himself. He cups her chin and turns her to face him, searching her eyes and finding -- 

Not the gamin little robot of a killer Philippa had left in his hands. Not that. 

There is a woman here, and she is affronted, and wary, and ashamed of herself -- no. He will not allow -- 

But there are certain ways to do *this*: "Burnham... a piece of advice," he says, and forces himself to release her, to step back, to make himself... something like *safe*. 

She *hauls* herself back to attention -- but her eyes are on his now. "Sir." 

Gabriel smiles just as wryly as he wishes to. "Even the best of us -- including the best of *Vulcans* -- find it easier to live up to their ideals of who they should be when they've gotten a full night's *rest*." All sorts of species scream and cry and wail when they don't, Burnham... but. He raises his eyebrows. 

She narrows her eyes just a little more than she had before -- 

Seems to be close to flaring her *nostrils* to *scent* after what Gabriel hadn't quite said -- 

So. "Burnham." 

She blinks rapidly, wetting her soft lips and looking down for just a moment before looking up again -- 

Setting her *jaw* -- 

"I -- am having difficulty. Sleeping." 

"That much I *deduced*, Burnham," he says, and crosses his arms over his chest -- but keeps a smile on his face. 

This time... she blushes. "I don't... have enough work. To do. Sir. When I was. Before I mutinied... there was much more to do." 

And -- perhaps -- it was his turn to flare his nostrils. 

To smell her sweat, her work, her *restlessness* -- 

He doesn't say one word about giving her all sorts of things to do. And then, of course, he wonders why he'd even *bothered*, because he has his arm around her shoulders -- 

He's walking her absolutely nowhere official -- 

Nowhere *sensible* -- 

No, her quarters aren't far from here. He... will do this.

This and nothing else.

"Sir -- I --" 

"Burnham. I'm going to make you... an immensely busy woman," he says, and lets himself sound precisely as much like a predator as he wants to. 

She smiles at him like -- 

Like a child from *this* universe. 

No other. 

He doesn't ask her when she'd learned to kill Klingons as brutally as she'd done in the simulation. 

He knows he'd only have to bite his tongue off to keep from teaching her all the ways to turn that brutality on other, less politically-expedient -- in this universe -- species. 

"Sir..." 

"Mm?" 

"If I may --" 

"It's after 0300, Burnham. *Kindly* pull the stick out," he says, perhaps a little more sharply than -- 

She snorts -- 

She snorts again -- 

She looks at him with the bright, hectic eyes of exhaustion, stress, *and* hilarity -- 

And Gabriel... inclines his head. Just so. 

She hums herself back down to something like sobriety, but her eyes are still bright -- and she's moving with loose-limbed ease at his side, tension released just that quickly, just that -- 

And he's seen this walk on her before, of course. Seen her *move*. 

It's tempting -- considering the mild sway of those hips -- to think of all *sorts* of sex when she's moving like this, but -- 

"Thank you for that, sir." 

"You're welcome," he says, dragging himself *back*. "But you were going to ask me something." 

She *looks* at him then, shrewd and dissecting, sharp and deep, *opening*. 

Every trace of the exhaustion is missing from her gaze just that quickly -- and there is nothing of the child in the smile curled at the corner of her mouth. There's a predator there, just as there's one in her *stride*. In her *prowl*. In -- 

Michael.

*Michael* -- even if not his own. 

Gabriel hums and faces front again -- with an effort. "I'm all ears, Burnham." 

"I can't help but wonder what you were doing by the simulation room at this hour of the night, Captain." 

He narrows his eyes in a smile he knows is -- too hungry. "I might have just been checking up on the condition of an *exceedingly* valuable asset... Specialist." 

"'Might have been'...?" 

"Or I might just have difficulty sleeping myself," Gabriel says, stopping them at Burnham's door and cupping her shoulder gently, firmly, *professionally* -- 

"Oh --" 

"Shh. All is well, Burnham. You have, after all, just told me that rapturous joy will positively fill your heart -- and sing thee to thy rest...? -- the *moment* I fill your plate with work that I didn't have enough plates for before this very moment," he says, and winks. 

She opens her mouth -- and closes it. "I had been assuming that you would not actually *murder* me with the work you planned to give me, Captain." 

"Hmm. And by that you show me an education in the Terran classics..." 

"You showed your own first," she says, quick and sharp. 

He laughs, chest loosening and heart so -- 

So -- 

"I think you'll find, Burnham, that what I just showed you was a *terrible* education in the Terran classics." 

This time, her smile is just a little soft and... wondering.

There's no blood on her face, no blade in her hands, no shared kill at their *feet*. 

This moment will not lead to the two of them making love for the very first time, illicit and sharp and -- 

And -- 

She is still Michael. 

"I -- good night, Sir." 

No one else. "Same to you," he says, smiling and walking away.


	4. It's not *not* coping...

Tonight, after some -- not much, but some -- debate, he lets the computer conjure a Burnham to share the couch with him as he -- 

Well, he *is* pontificating a little. 

He might as well admit it. 

He's a big enough *man* to admit it, and -- 

But he can do more than that -- 

"Burnham." 

He'd ordered the computer to integrate several of Burnham's actual expressions -- the expressions she tends to have on her face when she's speaking with *him* -- and it's actually doing a fair job. 

The Burnham beside him has cocked her head to the side just so, has pursed those generous lips the tiniest bit -- 

She is listening politely, but impatiently. 

"I'm taking an unconscionably long time to get to the point," Gabriel says, and downs his whiskey. "You're right," he says, and takes a breath, licks his lips. "I'm not ashamed of this," he says, utterly unnecessarily. 

She frowns -- 

She raises an eyebrow -- 

She gives him that -- that *gorgeously* skeptical look -- 

She *laughs* -- 

All of it at once, and the computer is asking him to choose. He can't. 

He can't. 

He licks his lips again and turns away. Back to the bed. 

He points -- "I didn't make love to my Michael on a bed the first time. I made love -- and it *was* lovemaking -- to her on the floor of the Emperor's private dojo, on mats slicked with the blood and other effluvia of certain...

"No, I'll be -- I'll be. Philippa kept as many would-be assassins alive for as long as possible as she could. Object lessons for the people, sure, but mostly as education for Michael. She would hone Michael's skills on them, with them. 

"They would never be allowed to actually *kill* Michael before she could fully defend herself -- let's recall that many of these assassins had been trained to kill for twenty years before Michael was born -- but she was expected to take her hits. Earn her *scars*." 

Gabriel reaches for his love -- 

For the looping, awful, gorgeous, keloid flash-blade scar that had marred *and* enhanced Michael's cheek right up until Philippa had yanked her leash on that score, too. 

She had an image to maintain, for the sake of Empire. 

For the sake of *Philippa*. 

Gabriel growls. "By the time Michael was old enough to be presented to Terran nobility, she was... marked everywhere. A beautiful landscape. A beautiful tapestry. 

"She could also hold her own against -- or best -- absolutely any human opponent, and most other species, as well. I'd helped with that. 

"She'd learned to love the scars that Philippa had taught her, at first, were the marks of failure. She'd learned to wear them with the pride of. Of." 

Gabriel covers his face with his hands, crushing the empty tumbler against his eyebrow. He -- 

No.

No. 

He moves his hands. "When Philippa told her she couldn't have the scars anymore, that she would have to be healed, that it was all only temporary -- until she *could* prove herself worthy of the full complement of Terran weapons... 

"That was the first crack in their mortar. Their *foundation*. 

"It wasn't my seduction. It wasn't my hands on her beautiful, *uneven* body. It wasn't my tongue, my teeth, my *cock*." 

He lifts his hands -- 

He drops his hands. 

He doesn't look at the ghost beside him -- 

He looks at her. 

She's frowning, but her eyes are... soft. 

She's reaching for him with her slim, *competent* fingers. 

She -- 

"Computer... I haven't seen this expression on Specialist Burnham's face. Not directed towards *me*." 

"Captain Lorca, you did not specify --" 

"I --" 

"-- that the Burnham construct must only wear expressions the true Specialist Burnham allowed you to witness." 

The laugh is shocked out of him, as is the smile. "So she's wanted to offer comfort to me... mm. We can work with this..." 

"Were there changes you wished to make to the Burnham construct, Captain Lorca?" 

Gabriel waves the hand holding the empty tumbler. "Not at this time, computer, but the sentiment is appreciated." 

"Acknowledged, Captain Lorca." 

"Mm," he says, sitting beside the construct and smiling at it ruefully. "It's all right, Burnham. It's -- oh. You're making everything just fine. You'll see." 

She cocks her head to the side again, but that *hopeful* smile is on her face, and Gabriel can see that it's an *inviting* smile. 

An offering smile -- though not one offering *overly* much. 

An ear, an arm, a mess table. 

A warm hand to hold, arms to fall into when one needed a *hug* -- 

She's just as lonely as he is. 

But, perhaps, she's somewhat better at coping with it. 

He laughs hard and long -- desperately. 

The laugh is fucked and wrong and -- 

"Computer -- *god* -- stop *recording*!"


	5. It's important to show an honest interest in the things which are most important to the people we care for.

He doesn't *deliberately* give her tasks that demand she skip meals with the others in the mess -- he *doesn't* need two people on this ship to lose their minds from loneliness -- but he can tell that he has begun to isolate her just the same. 

He doesn't want that. 

He *doesn't*. 

He thinks seriously about applying gentle pressure to the baffling Tilly creature until she gives more of her blithe, open-minded, and apparently pure-hearted forms of comfort to Burnham -- he truly does. 

The first problem with this is that he's reasonably certain that all beings like Tilly which had appeared in his universe were driven into whatever wilderness could be found thousands of years before, until the genes had been purged from the species, and so he doesn't know what will *happen* if he applies pressure to Tilly.

Will she cry?

Will she... hug someone?

Will she hug someone *while* crying?

Will she have an explosively emotional psychotic break of the sort the Vulcans always seemed to fear more than anything else? 

The second problem with this is that... he doesn't have to. Tilly is doing an excellent job applying pressure to herself -- if that's even what beings like her do -- to make Burnham a part of this crew. 

The fact that Tilly herself was only marginally a member of this crew herself is of no consequence. She's... soothing to these Starfleet types. Disarming, perhaps?

It bears thought, for all that her brand of personnel management could never be weaponized for use in the Empire. 

Though -- hm. Against the rebels, perhaps?

Gabriel lets himself think about that for several long moments before turning to the tired, strained Burnham-construct on the couch beside him. "What do you think, mm?" 

An eyebrow raise -- 

A contemptuous look -- 

A flash of rage that's about as banked as a tidal wave --

A *strike* aimed at his *throat* -- 

Gabriel hums a laugh. "Computer, excellent work integrating Specialist Burnham's classified psych profiles." 

"Acknowledged, Captain Lorca." 

"What you don't understand, Burnham," Gabriel says, and urges the computer to put a tumbler of whiskey in the construct's hand, "is that Starfleet already knows precisely how devoted you are to everything they are, everything they wish to be, and everything they *never* were -- but always claimed to be." 

Narrowed eyes -- 

A shaken head -- 

"Yes, I know, but -- you're young. In many ways, you've been ill-served by living in such peaceful, well-fed times --" 

The construct does its level best to throw the whiskey in his face. 

Gabriel bites the tip of his tongue. 

Pauses. 

*Pauses*. 

The construct has gone back to neutrally raising an eyebrow and cocking her head at him -- no. There's rage in those eyes, still. There -- 

Hm. 

Gabriel picks up his PADD, calls up every file on Burnham's childhood he'd ever been able to wrest out of Starfleet's clutches, and rereads them at speed.

And, of course, there's that Klingon raid that had killed her parents and left her in the care of this universe's fucking *Sarek*, but... nothing else. 

Nothing at all. 

Could this universe's Burnham truly be so *sensitive* about such things? 

He has, of course, seen how *excessive* these Starfleet types get about *all* deaths among their numbers, but surely -- 

Burnham's parents had been killed *years* ago. 

She can't possibly even remember their faces, their voices. 

Gabriel frowns at the construct. 

"You have to save your -- your *grief* for the people who *matter*, Michael --" 

She snarls at him -- 

"You have to --" 

She stands up off the couch -- 

Gabriel stands *with* her -- "They didn't *raise* you. They didn't *shape* you. They -- the fucking *Vulcans* did that!" 

The construct walks into nothingness -- disappears. 

Gabriel blinks. 

Licks his lips. 

Considers... 

Perhaps he's approaching this from the wrong angle. He's been told -- and he's seen for himself -- that the Klingons from this universe treat noncombatants a whole hell of a lot worse than the rebel-allied Klingons do in his own universe.

There are tales of 'honorable' Klingons here and there, but those tend to boil down to "didn't torture the prisoners before the summary murder." 

Which is, of course, how it all was before the Empire had destroyed the pathetic savages' home-world. 

Wasn't it?

Gabriel frowns and -- pushes that thought aside. For the moment. 

The important thing is that the surviving Klingons, united under the albino Voq, conducted war like it was a means to an end -- as opposed to *the* end. 

The rebels wanted to create a peaceful universe where everyone could live equally blah, blah -- and that meant they had to do things like treat prisoners of war *gently* and *honorably* whenever possible. 

It was a weakness the Empire had exploited wherever possible -- and it has given Gabriel a fatal blind spot. 

"Computer. Were Burnham's late parents tortured in a manner commensurate to how the Klingons are conducting this war?"

"Question unclear." 

Gabriel bares his teeth. "Were they brutally raped repeatedly, killed only during the process of dismemberment, cooked, then eaten?"

"Michael Andreas Burnham Senior suffered multiple cranial fractures and brain trauma over the course of approximately five point four seven minutes before his life signs became too faint to read. Baniti Muminah Burnham suffered multiple bone and tissue traumas over eighty-three percent of her body for the next four point eight seven hours before --" 

"And did Michael -- Specialist Burnham. Did she witness this herself?" 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

"Really..." 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

"Why isn't the debrief in the files?"

"She was debriefed and counseled on Vulcan. Those files were requested, but the request was refused." 

Gabriel blinks -- extensively. It... no. "Computer, give me the files about that particular... discussion," he says, fully expecting them to be classified, expecting to have to *work* for them, but -- 

No. 

It's all right there: Starfleet's polite but firm request for Burnham's medical records; assorted Vulcan functionaries providing everything but the good stuff; Starfleet getting more firm, Vulcans getting colder and less forthcoming, Starfleet getting downright *huffy* -- 

And, finally, *Sarek* -- good old Sarek -- pointing out various salient facts about Federation regulations regarding the privacy of children. 

*Especially* the *medical* privacy of children. 

Sarek had then pointed out what everyone had been dancing around -- that Burnham's psych evaluations were well within the standard ranges when they weren't exemplary -- and that, if Starfleet *was* implying something about his ward, he would appreciate if they would simply state it clearly. 

That, of course, was the end of *that*. 

Gabriel smiles helplessly. Sarek always did have balls to put his *entire* species to shame. Well. 

If Michael Burnham had to be raised by *any* Vulcan... 

He takes a breath. 

He studies the patch of air the construct Burnham had disappeared into. 

He narrows his eyes...

"Why don't you teach me a few things, Burnham, mm?"

The construct returns, and her breathing is a little harsh, and she's frustrated, and angry, and -- 

"I..." Gabriel licks his lips. "There's a lot I don't know about... you." 

Eyebrow raise. 

"Even after studying you *extensively*. What can anyone learn about a person *solely* through a personnel file -- no, pause program." 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

"That -- that was a terrible line. I'm absolutely sure any number of Starfleet higher-ups have used that line to get in their underlings' awful little trousers. I -- any stats on that?" 

"Question unclear, Captain Lorca." 

"Sure it was," Gabriel says, and paces -- 

And paces -- 

And picks up the bottle -- no. 

No. 

"Computer, end program and stop recording." 

The construct disappears -- 

"Where is Specialist Burnham now?" 

"She is in the cafeteria --" 

"Image." 

Gabriel's viewscreen is immediately replaced with an excellent view of Burnham frowning viciously at her PADD while eating... alone. 

It's -- he checks -- 0147 hours. 

Gabriel grunts, straightens his uniform *badly*, and *goes*.


	6. This isn't inappropriate in the slightest.

Gabriel moves within range of a somewhat tricky phaser-shot -- 

A knife-throw that he could *probably* duck -- depending on how charitable Michael was feeling, of course -- 

A pounce and a grapple -- 

He gets *closer*, and watches that frown get deeper and deeper and *infinitely* more irritable. 

He can't keep his smile in, at *all* -- 

"I apologize, but I need to focus on this problem while I eat --" 

"Do you...?"

She blinks -- 

Stiffens -- 

*Forcibly* relaxes herself -- and *then* looks up with an *extremely* rueful look. "I apologize, sir. I --" 

"You didn't realize it was me; I get it," he says, and pushes at the air in what seems, in this universe, to be the sort of thing people do when they want to gently discourage others from showing their bellies. 

There's a lot of that sort of thing here. 

Gabriel gestures to the chair across from hers. "May I?"

"Of course, sir --" 

"Thank you," he says, and sits. "Tell me what you're working on." 

She lifts her PADD. "I'm attempting --" 

"PADD down, spoon up. *Then* tell me what you're working on." 

"You... would like for me to report to you while I'm *eating*?" 

"Yes, Burnham. Chew *at* me, if at all possible." 

He doesn't get a snort from her for that, but there's a flash of humor in her eyes -- 

A brighter flash of an abortive smile -- 

She *starts* to shake her head -- and then she stops, and hums. "Captain. Would you like to speak to a Starfleet counselor about the predilections you've developed over the years?"

Oh... Gabriel pooches up his face in his most constipated Starfleet-is-deeply-disappointed-in-you impression -- 

Which *does* get a snort -- 

"That was an *extremely* prejudiced statement, Specialist. We don't call *anything* a predilection around here until it involves an unplanned trip to sickbay."

And there -- a bright little laugh, choked back far too *quickly*, but still so -- 

Mm. "You should do that more often." 

"I..." 

"You should also *eat*," he says, and pulls on the face of elder wisdom, wryness at his own ridiculousness -- 

She smiles easily for that, and nods, and attacks her food like it's trying to get away from her -- she was *exactly* as hungry as she'd looked. 

Gabriel says nothing about the report she was supposed to be giving him -- he has her PADD monitored from top to bottom, after all, and knows *exactly* what she's working on -- 

But. 

He pulls on an expression of patience, just the same -- no. 

No. 

He stands while she's eating and gets her another tray of food. He absolutely can't bring himself to get her the spicy Vulcan garbage she shovels down with depressing regularity, but -- 

There are other things. 

She's a human, just like him, and the father whose name she wears was *raised* in the American South -- just like him. 

Perhaps...

He brings the tray to their table, slides it over, and watches very closely indeed as Michael dabs her mouth like a woman waking from a dream of starvation and *then* looks at what Gabriel has brought her. 

Replicated 'pork' sausage is a terrible thing -- an abomination according to all three of his other's grandmothers, going by the man's personal logs -- but he and the other Lorca agree: it smells right. 

It *bursts* right between your teeth -- if you *position* your teeth just so. 

The spices smell like...

Well, not like home. 

Not for *him*. 

Home is Michael. But...

Michael -- Burnham -- is still staring at the little feast he'd prepared. Particularly at the cheesy egg scramble. 

Gabriel hums and rubs at his jaw, letting the self-consciousness show, just a little. "No...?" 

"I -- haven't." 

Hm. "Ever...?"

She purses her lips almost violently hard, and her eyes are tracking quickly -- and then they aren't, and she's looking at him with a warm, soft, *appreciative* smile on her face. "I haven't in... a very long time," she says, and digs right in. 

Eggs first, then grits, then eggs again, then grits again... hm. "Not the sausage?" 

"The sausage is the *dessert*," she says, with open, honest *relish* -- and eats faster. 

"A woman after my own heart," he says, letting his drawl make things just a little more deniable -- 

She looks at him sharply, though. 

Another one of those beautifully *dissecting* looks, really, and Gabriel will be tired of those... never. 

Never, never... 

"I'm going to respond to that look," he says, and steals a piece of sausage -- 

She smacks his fingers -- deliberately late -- with her spoon. 

Gabriel coughs a laugh -- 

She hums and pulls on that Vulcan inscrutability -- and Gabriel realizes that she's using it, in this moment, the way most of the humans on this ship use their deliberately-poor 'innocent' looks. 

He realizes it *late*, though, and he's caught staring when he should be smiling, inviting -- something -- 

She looks down. "I apologize --" 

"No," he says, too sharply, too -- "Not that. Please -- not that," he says, and -- perhaps it's enough that he's laid a foundation with her for being just a bit of a *wreck*. 

Perhaps it's enough that he's been *that* sort of *honest* -- because. 

She's studying him again, but it's not cold, and it's less dissecting than careful. 

Gentle. 

He knows her hands aren't as soft as they *seem* like they'd feel in this moment. 

No Michael's hands ever could be. 

"Perhaps," she says, after a moment, "I will wait for you to answer my questions instead of apologizing reflexively." 

"An excellent choice," Gabriel says, and takes as ragged a breath as he needs to. 

Her eyes take in... all of him. 

Her eyes... 

Are you thinking of touching me, Michael...? 

"Your question -- which you didn't actually ask, and I'm sure that's worth a demerit *somewhere* --" 

"Captain, I'm not certain how many more... demerits I can *have*." 

"That's quitter talk, Specialist --" 

She snorts for him --

He grins. "Eat your dessert." 

"As you say," she says, and obviously savors every bite of that sausage. Every -- "The question I didn't ask?" 

"Are you gonna ask it?" 

"Hmm," she says, and her eyes are bright and *playful* -- "All right. What precisely were you looking for in my past when you discovered where my biological father was raised... and thus what sorts of food I might find comforting."

"The sorts of things which made up your attitudes toward our... enemy," he says, and -- does nothing about the darkness in his voice. 

Everything about her stiffens for a beat -- 

Another -- 

And then she relaxes herself. "Did you find what you were looking for, Captain?" 

"I found, yet again, that I had in my hands the most valuable asset the Federation *has*, Burnham." 

"I --" 

"You know what they're like. You know what they *are*." 

She grunts and jerks back -- 

And Gabriel nods once. "We both know you did what you did because you wanted to *avert* catastrophe --" 

"I -- it wasn't --" 

Gabriel holds up a hand -- "You didn't do things the right way. We both know that, too." Philippa always did have a remarkable resistance to Vulcan battle tactics... "Starfleet is my home, my life..." He shakes his head. "That doesn't mean that I haven't recognized its myriad... shortcomings over the years," he says, and raises an eyebrow. 

She blinks -- 

Takes a breath -- 

And then *dissects* him again, raising one back. "I can't say I haven't... noticed this about you, Captain." 

Gabriel grins, steals her tea, takes a sip, and toasts her with it. "I'd be wildly disappointed if you hadn't noticed, Burnham." 

"What do you want from me. Truly." 

Everything. "Everything you can give -- and more whenever you're recovered enough that I *can* get it out of you. And I will have it, Burnham -- because you're too damned intelligent, talented, and *competent* not to --" 

"Take advantage of...?"

Gabriel inclines his head. "You didn't join Starfleet to sit on your ass until you *felt* like working up a sweat *occasionally*, Burnham." 

"No. I didn't," she says, and... studies him. 

He raises his eyebrows. 

"Did you think..." 

"I'm listening." 

"I will not betray you, Captain." 

"I --" 

She holds up a hand. "I've had my fill of mutiny," she says, and doesn't *quite* grind those un-filed teeth. "I will not betray you and, more to the point, I *will* do everything to help you -- *us* -- win this war. I believe you have remarkably cogent ideas about how to do so the vast majority of the time --" 

Gabriel coughs a laugh -- 

But that hand is still up in the air. That... 

Michael. 

*Michael*. 

"I am all ears, Specialist," Gabriel says, and drinks more of her tea. 

She inclines her head. "I believe you are the right Captain for this ship, and for these tasks that we have been given -- and for the tasks that we *should* have been given, but were not because Starfleet moves too slowly for its own good at times. I believe that I *am* an asset to you, and that --" She stops then. 

She stops, and turns away -- 

*Lowers* her hand -- 

And Gabriel knows. He sets the tea down, leans across the table, grips her chin, and turns her to face him. "Don't fear that feeling, Michael. You can be afraid of anything else you want to be afraid of, but *never* fear your *knowledge* of your own intrinsic *worth*." 

She pants -- 

She stares into his eyes with her own wide, dark, and *wild* ones -- 

She's *gripping* Gabriel's wrist just *barely* on the fair side of causing *damage* --

Gabriel doesn't yank her across the table and *take* --

He does *not*. 

He -- 

"Captain." Her voice is low. Contained -- for all that her eyes are still wild. 

And it's not time. 

He breathes. 

He loosens his grip on her chin. 

She loosens her grip on his wrist. 

They watch each other from the nothing-distance they've achieved over this sad little mess-table -- 

They breathe each other's *breaths* -- 

And then Gabriel moves *back*, and stands, and smiles wryly. "Burnham." 

"Sir." When she stands, her wariness is that of a predator.

She would fight him brutally tonight. 

She would... 

*Michael* -- 

Gabriel breathes deep, and closes his eyes for a *moment*, and tilts his head back --

He gives her his vulnerability -- 

He gives it *all* to her -- 

"Sir..." 

And there it is. It's not a question in her voice, not really. She knows. She sees. She sees *him*. 

It's... enough of what he needs tonight.

Enough that he can pull on the visage of another man, and smile ruefully. "As you *may* have guessed, Burnham... I know precisely what you're working on at *all* times." 

"It... did seem more likely than the alternative, sir," she says, and gives him... a very speaking look. It's not without amusement, though. 

It's not without... 

Invitation. 

"What's even more likely than that...?" 

"Yes, sir?" 

"Is my advent into your moments of solitude when you're not --"

"In bed before curfew...?" 

"... taking care of yourself," he says, and gives her his *own* look.

"I was not aware that I had lost the past fifteen years of my life and maturity along with my commission, sir." 

Gabriel laughs and gestures to the table. "Bus those trays, Specialist," he says, and starts walking to the door. "And remember that the crew of a starship is only as healthy and successful --" 

"-- as its least healthy and successful -- *sir*. I am aware of that particular --" 

"If you don't take care of you, Michael," Gabriel says, and rests his hand on the door panel before turning to take her in again. All of her. "Then I will." 

He stays long enough to watch her shiver for that. 

And then he leaves.


	7. It's important to find out if you're compatible with your crush.

The construct on the couch beside him has, over the course of the past hour: 

Attempted to knock his teeth out -- 

Attempted to stop his *heart* -- 

Attempted to palm his cock through his *trousers* -- 

And glared at him with varying levels of murderous rage. 

One of those things is decidedly unlike the others. 

There's a distinctly contrary part of him which absolutely doesn't want to ask any questions of the computer, as opposed to simply continuing the recording he's doing -- 

The recording he fully intends to *give* Michael once Philippa's dead, Gabriel has taken the throne, and Michael is safely and comfortably imprisoned on the _Charon_ \-- 

She'll need something to *do* while she's getting adjusted to her new life -- 

It's not like he'll be able to give her access to all the classified files right away -- 

A part of him wants to be contrary, and see if he can get the construct to try to jerk him off... naturally. 

If the word could ever be applied to anything remotely *like* this. 

It -- no. 

Gabriel smiles at the construct, who is currently pretending to be simply waiting for him to begin speaking again, but is actually most of the way into the sort of ready position that tends to end in one's opponent's limbs bent in multiple directions at once. 

The construct blinks at him. Slowly. 

"So. Shall we go back to talking about my sexual history with my Michael?" 

The construct doesn't -- quite -- reach for a phaser. 

"All right, new tack: Have you actually been trying to conduct your sexual and romantic relationships like a *Vulcan*?" 

That stare -- 

"Are you familiar with myths about basilisks?" 

This blink is much more neutral -- and she cocks her head to the side. Improvement. 

"All right; I'll tell you," Gabriel says, and gestures in the air to conjure without the help of a computer. "Big, but not too big. Tough, but not excessively so. The main reason they were so hard for those capital-H Heroes to defeat is that their gaze -- *just* their gaze -- could turn anyone to stone." 

A thoughtful look -- 

A mild frown -- 

A *dissecting* look, and Gabriel wants, he wants, he -- 

He turns away from the construct and picks up his PADD, searching Burnham's files for -- but he doesn't have to excoriate himself by counting how many times he's done this. 

Starfleet knows exactly how many times she's fucked around with her fellows where they could be monitored doing so, which is... some. 

Some. 

Two human male cadets while she was at the Academy, one human agender ensign while she was *also* an ensign. 

A depressingly blank slate after that, just as if someone had yanked her leash. Or... 

Had she yanked her own?

Starfleet firmly discourages fraternization in ways that border on religious *mania* -- and in ways that are just as often wildly hypocritical. 

Still, Burnham is a woman who has *obviously* spent a great deal of time thinking she has something to prove, so... 

Perhaps she'd adopted those Starfleet edicts on sexuality on her way up the ladder. 

Perhaps she'd locked that beautiful cunt *away* in the interests of her *career*. And -- 

"I'll show you a better way, Michael. I'll -- a warmer way." He licks his lips and turns to the construct -- 

She's stroking an entirely holographic representation of one of *his* blades -- a wickedly curved number he'd taken from an Andorian rebel whose phaser had run out of charge at a decidedly inopportune -- for her -- moment. 

She'd fought hard just the same. 

She had, when all was said and done, nearly taken his *liver*. 

He keeps that blade in a place of honor... and there is no question in this universe or any other that Burnham -- *Michael* -- has seen him studying the thing covetously. 

Right now, the construct is turning the blade this way and that, practicing lunges and strikes and slashes from her seated position -- mm. 

"Were they good to you, Michael?" 

Her eyes glitter on him, and she never stops working his *blade*. 

Gabriel palms his *own* cock. "*For* you, then. Did they give you... what you needed."

She aims the blade *at* his cock -- but only for a moment before she sets it down beside her and stands -- 

And *stalks* across the floor to him -- 

To *him* -- 

"So maybe I should just keep talking about the two of *us*, mm...?" 

She shows her teeth -- and covers the hand he has on his cock with her own nonexistent one. 

"You're absolutely right," he says, and nods. "No one belongs in this room but. But us," he says, and his voice is hoarse, rough for some reason -- 

There's something building behind his face -- 

Something -- 

And it's in his throat -- 

And he can see -- 

That bathroom -- 

His Princess is *leaking*, not bleeding, because she's dead, because it's over, it's all over, she's smashed to pieces and she's never coming back, she's -- 

The blood is everywhere and it's over and there's no time, there's no *fucking* time, and -- 

And --

And then, with a *jolt*, Gabriel realizes that he's -- crying. 

He's actually fucking -- 

And he doesn't fucking -- 

He tears himself *back*, even though there's nothing, there's no one -- 

He can't -- 

He scrubs his hands over his face like the most *useless* child, weak and -- 

And the construct is looking at him softly again. So --

There's *regret* in the construct's eyes, as if *she* had done something to -- to -- 

"Computer," Gabriel says, and then stops, because his voice is *ragged* -- 

He breathes -- 

He breathes -- 

He feels himself *weeping* more, but -- it's silent. He's not shaking. 

He isn't -- 

He breathes. "Computer. Why do you theorize that Specialist Burnham would feel regret in a moment like this one." 

"All data available from Specialist Burnham's most recent psychological profiles suggest that her current activities aboard the _Discovery_ \-- both official and recreational -- are non-optimal for emotional fulfillment, Captain Lorca." 

"She needs friends." 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

"More... than she has already." 

"Affirmative. While Specialist Burnham was raised on Vulcan after the death of her parents, her primary caregiver remained human. As such, while her psychological evaluations suggest strongly that she is a woman who strives toward Vulcan ideals of emotional and psychological development, her responses will remain within the standard human ranges at least seventy-two percent of the time." 

Gabriel grunts noncommittally.

"I am well within the margin of error you defined for this exercise, Captain Lorca."

"You believe she will have... something of a panic response if she believes she is injuring a... friend." 

"It would be more accurate to say that Specialist Burnham will respond to the possibility of future losses -- potentially any future losses -- with some degree of inappropriate fervor, Captain Lorca." 

The construct's eyes are -- so wide. 

They -- 

"You won't lose me, Michael. You won't --" 

She steps closer, firm and sure -- 

"You won't lose *me*!"


	8. I'm sure this will all work out fine.

Which is, of course, exactly why he winds up imprisoned by Klingons. 

*Away* from her -- no. 

He'll get back to her, simple as that. 

The trick is to figure out how, and when, and on whose *back*. 

The boy is... 

Tyler. 

*Ash* Tyler, and Gabriel's been wracking his mind to see if he can remember someone like him from his own universe, as if that would be anything but *worse* than useless. 

He'd spent nearly three solid *weeks* on edge around Tilly, waiting for her to murder half the crew in a mutiny that would give her control of the ship and everything-bloody-else, even *knowing* what this universe was like, and all that had gotten him was wasted *time*. 

No, he doesn't know Tyler from anywhere, and that's honestly for the best. 

It doesn't stop him from vetting the boy, of course. 

There's something there that's just a little too grey for this candy-coated universe, and, if nothing else, he needs to know if it's going to get him *killed*. But -- 

But. 

It all turns out to be just the usual sort of thing that happens in P.O.W. camps. 

Captor and prisoner. 

Captor and victim. 

Captor and... means to an end. 

It's enough to let him get in a few jabs against his torturer, which, of course, gets him hurt worse -- but infinitely less *effectively* than it might have otherwise gone. It's a simple fact of life, he'll say to Michael someday: 

Everyone breaks under torture. 

Every species, every gender, every military *rank*. 

No one is too hard for it. No one is *above* it. 

The trick -- and it's a very weak and flimsy one, indeed -- is to see how long you can go before your captors figure out the most *effective* tortures to use against you. 

He'll tell her it won't be long, at all. 

He'll show her -- 

But it's now. 

It's now, and they're moving like a well-honed unit -- him and Tyler, that is -- 

They're getting things *done*, and they're damned well leaving that leaking pustule of a con-man behind to suffer, which is even better -- 

They're leaving *bodies* in their wake, and it's sweet, there's nothing better -- 

Oh, but Tyler's down. Hm. 

It only takes a moment's calculation -- he can't leave him. This is, still, a two-man job. And Captain Lorca has an image to maintain, for that matter.

He does what he *needs* to do, goes back for the boy -- 

And finds him with the Klingon who took such a *liking* to him. 

Well, that's some trauma that's going to take some time to work through, but Tyler's not going to get it. 

Some brutality will have to do for now -- there, one shot to the Klingon's face. 

That had to feel good, right?

It always worked for *him*. 

They're out. 

They're *out*, and the stars beckon, and _Discovery_ *has* to be looking for them, because that's just the sort of people they *are*, and never mind the Klingons sending live and deadly love letters to them -- 

Oh, this Tyler boy knows how to *fly*. 

Well, Lorca knows how to use boys like him, now doesn't he. 

He -- 

And the contact comes -- 

And he can *feel* *her* reaching for him -- 

Needing him to be safe?

Needing him to get clear?

I'm *here*, Michael. I told you I'd never -- 

But he can feel the impossible heat of their raider disintegrating around them even as the _Discovery_ transports them to safety.

Gabriel knows his smile is savage as he stands straight on the transporter pad. 

Tyler's smile is a bit more stunned than that... but they can work on that with time.


	9. First dates are always awkward.

"Let me tell you something, Michael," he says to the construct beside him on the bed. 

They're both in their pajamas in this moment, and Gabriel is drinking nothing but water -- he's dehydrated as hell, and Culber wouldn't let him out of sickbay unless he all but made a blood vow to drink water until he passed *out*. 

The construct is lying on her side, head resting on that wonderfully *competent* fist, other hand resting insubstantially over Gabriel's freshly-healed ribs. 

She is waiting. 

She is gentle. 

She is -- 

Gabriel hums and drinks more water. "I'm getting old. *That's* what I have to say." 

She *looks* at him. 

"What? I got the shit beaten out of me today. I'm feeling fragile." 

She punches him. 

Gabriel coughs a laugh -- 

And the door chimes.

That -- 

That doesn't happen especially often.

It happens even less often at... 0214 hours.

"Computer, end program," he says, and stands. 

Pauses -- 

And breathes, just breathes, because the person at his door is... Michael. 

Gabriel doesn't stop recording for even a moment, and he *does* open the door himself. 

"Sir. I apologize for --" 

"Are you about to apologize for waking me up, Burnham...?"

She glances away -- but only for a moment. "It seemed the polite thing to do." 

And that, of course, is the answer he was looking for, but -- 

But. 

Gabriel moves away from the door and gestures her inside. "At what point did you convince the computer to allow you access to my sleep habits? I'm curious." 

She gives him a *brightly* sharp look for that, right over her shoulder, and then goes right back to examining his living quarters. 

Owning them with her eyes. 

Does she know she does that?

How *many* of her so-called superiors had loathed her for that?

How far *should* she have advanced before this point -- but. 

But. *This* world's Philippa had lobbied for a captain's chair for her for at least a year before the mutiny.

Those files had only been made available to him after a great *deal* of wheedling, ass-kissing, boot-licking, and blatant illegality on his part, but -- 

There it all was. 

Gabriel moves to his personal replicator and has it brew her the green tea she enjoys -- 

And does nothing to stop himself from moving too close when he hands it to her. 

"Thank you," she says, and toasts him lightly before sipping. 

He raises his eyebrows expectantly -- 

And the smile -- that one -- curls at the corner of her mouth. "You made me... think, Captain." 

He doesn't growl -- "About...?" 

"The nature of caring," she says, turning away from him and pacing through his living quarters -- no. 

Strolling. 

*Stalking* -- "If I am to allow you to... care for me --" 

"You don't have a choice about that," he says -- too fast. Too harshly --

She pauses with her back to him -- but doesn't *quite* stiffen. 

Gabriel breathes -- stops. "It doesn't have to be --" 

"Sir," she says, and almost seems to be tasting the word on her tongue. 

Studying it. 

Examining -- 

"I'm listening," he says, and breathes, and *breathes* -- 

"I wonder," she says, and turns to face him again at last, "if you would allow yourself to be cared for in turn." 

It's not a surprise to be hard -- he was hard in bed with the construct. 

It's not a surprise that her pulse is pounding in her throat -- they both know what she's risking. What she *thinks* she's risking. 

It's not even a surprise that she's brazening this out just the same. He's given her... every hint. Every sign. Every *push*. 

What *is* a surprise --

What's going to fucking *kill* him -- 

What's going to make him murder every fucking person on this fucking *ship* if it doesn't stop -- 

Please just let it -- 

"Oh. Sir..." And she's closer now, so close -- 

And she's setting her *tea* down -- 

And her hands aren't soft, at all, for all that they aren't as hard as his Princess's -- 

Her hands are warm from the tea, warm from her -- her *soul*, and she's brushing his *tears* away -- 

She's brushing them all *away* -- 

"I don't -- want. This," he says, thick and low and -- wrong -- "Let me -- try again --" 

"I believe I understand," she says, and moves her hands from his face -- 

Cups and squeezes *his* hands -- 

Invites -- 

He squeezes back, holds her, *holds* her -- 

He doesn't have to think about the expression on his face, does he? Right now?

"Michael." 

"Sir --" 

"Gabriel. For -- please," he says, and feels himself *crying* more. It -- "It should be blood on my face, your hands --" 

"I'm rather pleased that it *isn't*," she says, and *looks* at him -- 

He coughs a *wet* laugh -- 

"I -- Gabriel." 

Gabriel shudders once, hard -- 

All over. 

All *over* -- 

"I... have questions," she says, and her eyes are full of caution, curiosity, wariness, gentleness, hunger -- 

Not the right kind of hunger. He has to do better. "Ask them," he says, and, "Michael." He strokes her knuckles with his thumbs slowly and firmly. 

Her lips part -- 

She blushes hot under her dark skin -- 

She -- frowns. 

"Michael --" 

"I want... will you tell me if you were romantically involved with someone on the _Buran_? I -- I would understand if it was too painful, but --" 

"You're wondering," he says, and swallows -- 

And shudders more -- 

And *breathes*. "You're wondering... if you're a replacement. Right?" 

She firms her lips into a hard line and looks away -- 

"Look at me. Please." 

"Sir -- Gabriel," she says, and *then* looks at him. "This isn't -- I believe you know precisely how experienced with romantic and sexual relationships I am *not*." 

"I do." 

"I know... enough to know that this sort of thing, what you seem to be proposing --" 

"You could never be a replacement," he says, and means it with every part of himself, every -- 

He lifts her hands to his mouth, and -- he doesn't kiss her fingertips. He nips them. 

Bites, one after another after another -- 

Until she makes a guttural noise. 

He nods. "That's what you do to me. That's..." He narrows his eyes. "I won't tell you I didn't lose anyone. I won't tell you I'm not -- grieving. Those would be *insulting* lies." 

She nods once, and waits for him. *Waits*. 

This time -- 

This time he lets the growl out. Just -- all the way out. 

Watches her *shiver*. 

"Michael." 

"Yes." 

"Michael... I've been dreaming of you. Looking for excuses to speak with *you*. Analyzing every report I could get about *you*. Dreaming..." He pants. "I tried. I tried to... with her. I tried to tell you about her --" He stops. He -- 

"Gabriel?" She's frowning. She -- 

Of course she doesn't *know* -- 

Of course she could never -- 

And this isn't even on his *schedule*. Regroup. He shakes his head once -- 

Squeezes his eyes shut -- 

Opens them again. "Dreams, fantasy -- and real life," he says, and smiles ruefully. "We speak a great deal more than you might imagine, Michael..." 

Her lips part again, and -- "Oh." 

Gabriel licks his own lips and squeezes those hands again. He doesn't urge her to wrap her arms around his neck. Not yet. 

"Gabriel. I..." She swallows. "I... would've liked to be invited to those conversations." 

"Really. Well, I'll be honest, Michael, you punched me in the face in more than a few of them," he says, and smiles wryly. 

*She* coughs a laugh -- 

Gabriel grins. "Yes? No? Any of your lovers enjoy that sort of thing...?" 

"Do *you*?" 

"A spar... can lead wonderful places. *Many* wonderful places," he says, and gives her his eyes.

"Oh." 

He raises his eyebrows. "You've never... imagined...?" 

Her blush gets hotter. "I have... but..." 

"You haven't had the chance to... put theory into practice?" 

"No. I -- never." 

Gabriel nods. "We can fix that. Just as soon as you'd like." 

Michael swallows again -- and looks him over. 

Looks his body over *exactly* like she's examining him for fitness *and* planning her attacks *and*... planning other sorts of attacks entirely. 

Gabriel grins. "As an aside... kindly look at me like that *whenever* you'd like." 

She *grunts*, eyes widening as she focuses on *his* eyes again -- 

He nods again. "Your control slipped. You hadn't realized you *were* going to look at me like that." 

"I -- no. I didn't. I'm not -- I'm not certain that I would like to... have sex like that." 

"Would you like to make love like that?" 

A soft, unclassifiable noise -- but she turns away.

"I apologize," Gabriel says, and squeezes her hands again. "That was an unfair question." 

"Was it?" She doesn't look at him -- yet. 

"It was. I'm a lot more experienced than you are. I *daresay* you spent far more time focusing on advancing your career than you spent thinking about what you would like to do in -- or around -- a bed." 

The smile for that is... very wry, indeed. And pointed at him again. "You've spent a lot of time with my psychological profile." 

"Every last word of every last one of them, Michael -- including the classified ones." 

She frowns thoughtfully for that. "I'm not certain if I would like to see those or not..." 

"You would." 

She *looks* at him again. 

He grins -- but. "Michael, I'm going to give you a word of very, very serious advice, all while hoping against hope that it doesn't make you start thinking of me as *just* your Captain again. All right?" 

She hums for that. "I'm listening." 

"Provisionally...?" 

A sharp nod. 

Gabriel grins even wider -- "Perfect. Here it is: More information is always better than less --" 

"I know that --" 

"More information about *yourself* is absolutely *vital*," he says, and squeezes her hands firmly. 

A frown.

He nods. "Once you hit your twenties, you get to thinking that you've answered, oh, *most* of the important questions about who you are, and what you like, and what you hate, and what you will and won't do in a given situation. Starfleet even helps you with that sort of thing with all of their psych profiles and simulations. Right?" 

She nods back. 

"So there you are. Confident. Secure. Honed and ready. And you do pretty damned well, as these things go. You don't make all that many mistakes, and the ones you *do* make are minor --" 

She flinches -- "Your point is made --" 

"Wait," he says, and looks into her as best as he can. "Just wait." 

She inhales deeply -- and nods. 

"Oh, Michael..." He licks his lips. "You probably *could* have predicted that you would do the things you did that day, given your *exacting* intelligence and your willingness to turn it on yourself --" 

"Yes --" 

"That's not the point," he says, and smiles ruefully. 

She studies him for long moments -- and then nods. "I have... made choices, since then, that I could not have predicted in myself. I lacked the data to do so. I lacked the imagination to craft the simulation." 

"Carry it through." 

She licks her lips. "I have made choices that are..." She frowns in the way which usually means that she'll turn away, if only for a moment, but -- she doesn't. "I have made choices that the person I was before I mutinied would find... baffling. Incomprehensible. Maddening. The person I am today, however, finds all of those choices entirely logical and necessary. 

"I do not know myself as well as I thought I did. I... are you saying that I will not know myself even when I have reached your age...?" 

Gabriel smiles wryly. "I think some people manage it. I do. I think other people are *small* enough that there are few enough things *for* them to know. I think still other people are so vast, so... so open to everything the universe can bring that, no matter how intelligent they are, no matter how *insightful* they are... they still will not ever wholly know themselves." 

She *looks* at him, and -- 

Gabriel laughs -- "Have you ever heard of the myth of the basilisk?" 

"Yes, and I am going to attempt to become one if you try to tell me that *I* am as vast and --" 

"I'm not here to *seduce* you, Michael." 

She blinks -- "No...? Then what." 

You're already seduced. He bites her fingers again, once and once. "Michael... we both know your imagination, your drive, your passion, your *fire* have been shrunk and channeled and brutally *directed* into only the places you thought they *should* go. Right?" 

She frowns at him. "There are times... when I wonder if you want to turn me into some... some *holo* of a mad scientist." 

"I promise you... I've never thought that *small*." 

"What..." She frowns more deeply, and turns away.

"Tell me. *Ask* me." 

"You already told me you wanted everything from me." 

"That's right." 

"Am I..." She looks at him. "Gabriel... I am not certain that I want 'everything' from *you*." 

He flares his nostrils. "Then why don't you tell me what you *are* certain you want, mm...?" 

She takes a deep, shuddering breath -- and pushes at the grip he has on her hands until he releases her. 

Until she can wrap her strong arms around his neck. 

Until she can -- press so close.

"Do you want this, Michael...?" 

"Yes. Even though I am not entirely certain what 'this' will entail with -- you." 

"Allow me to alleviate that bit of ignorance," he says, and guides her to the bedroom. 

The smile curls at the corner of her mouth again. "And you will be able to do this in the..." She checks the display across from the bed -- "... three point seven hours before we must begin preparing for duty, Gabriel...?" 

"It is, of course, an extended unit of study..." 

She laughs -- delightedly. So -- 

And for a moment Gabriel is in his own universe, and his Princess, his love, is watching a Vulcan dance in an agonizer booth. 

Other species curl in on themselves like bugs, but Vulcans jerk and thrash and -- 

And oh, his Michael loved it, set it to music, never grew *tired* of it --

"Oh -- Gabriel..." 

Fuck. 

Michael cups his face again, tilting Gabriel's head down and resting their foreheads together. "If you could... hold me..."

"I want more and so do you --" 

She kisses him then, soft and promising. 

"Michael --" 

"We have spent any number of nights wrapped around each other... in my dreams." 

Gabriel can't breathe, can't think, can't -- 

He's laying her down, stripping her carefully, *gently* -- 

She's moving for him, arching and bending this way and that to help. He doesn't stop at her underwear. He can't. He can't. 

When she's bare for him, she -- 

There are more scars than his Princess had, and that's only *logical*, but he's still groaning, still shaking, still -- 

He *tears* his own clothes off and -- burrows himself against her. 

He doesn't have to think about how much his body is shaking. 

He doesn't have to think about how much his *face* is *leaking*. 

He doesn't -- 

He doesn't. 

And when Michael maneuvers them enough that she can cover them both with the blanket, Gabriel shivers and clutches her. 

Holds her. 

He can't -- 

He can't do anything else, right now. 

He holds her all night.


	10. Thirsty times call for thirsty measures.

She doesn't come back the next night. 

She doesn't -- 

That may have something to do with the work he'd piled on her plate, because -- he's an idiot and an asshole and -- 

And he's aching. 

The sheets smell like her. 

She replicates coconut oil for her hair -- the prison colony wouldn't let her have the real stuff. Gabriel can only tell the difference because his Princess came close to literally beating it into him one night when he had -- extremely ill-advisedly -- scoffed at her complaints about not being *able* to get the real stuff on long voyages away from Terra. 

Every time he even *looked* like he'd been about to touch her hair after that, she'd pulled a blade on him. 

For *weeks*. 

Smiling -- even laughing -- at those memories does not lead to shudders, trembling, *or* tears. 

Nor does jerking off while thinking of Michael -- both Michaels, one after the other -- riding his cock. 

Nor does watching her eat -- with Tilly and the Tyler boy. 

She's smiling. 

She's comfortable. 

She laughs for them -- 

And Gabriel is thinking -- deeply -- of committing murder. 

Not indiscriminately -- he's not an *animal* -- but...

("Go on, my love. *Do* it. Do it for *hours* --" 

"Michael --" 

"We both know you won't be any good to *either* of us until at least three -- five? -- lesser beings have bled their last all over you."

"I..." 

"Would it help to consider it an order from your superior...?") 

And he's there, with his Princess. 

He's there, and they'd been in the otherwise-empty throne room, and Michael had been prowling around and around the golden throne in narrowing spirals -- and never, ever taking her eyes off *him*. 

When, finally, she was close enough to *touch* the throne -- 

*Philippa's* throne -- 

She had growled deep in her throat, narrowing her frankly luminous eyes and curling her long fingers over the arm of the throne so perfectly *possessively*. 

("Yes,") he'd said, and it'd been no better than a blurt, and -- 

("*Yes*,") he'd said again, and dropped to one *knee* -- 

She'd gasped, eyes widening again -- 

And then he had saluted, fervent and needy as the cattle-brained pulse-cannon fodder House Kirk liked to call *infantry* -- 

"Computer, begin recording," Gabriel says. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and walks away from the viewscreen showing Michael with her friends -- 

No. 

He stays right where he is. 

He -- "I don't hear her voice -- most of the time. Not in memory, not in hallucination. I think..." He frowns. 

He doesn't know... 

"I never hear my dead, Michael. Never," he says, and considers. 

Paces -- 

Paces back. "It's not that I disbelieved the people who talked about experiencing the phenomenon, or..." He frowns again. "No, I suppose I did think less of them," he says, and barks a laugh. "Grief is considered to be a necessary fact of life in the Empire, Michael. Everybody does it. Everybody does it every *day* -- like shitting. Reasonable, worthwhile people don't talk about it overmuch. 

"*Superior* people are the sort who convince you that, no matter what you know *intellectually* to be true, they don't need to shit, at all. 

"Or weep, as the case may be.

"Or. Or listen for the voices of -- their dead," Gabriel says, and snorts. "Your people have already corrupted me miserably, you know," he says, and drinks more water -- 

Pauses -- 

He pours himself a whiskey and splashes water *in* it. 

Sips -- 

"In case you were wondering, Michael, I just ruined *two* beverages," he says, and drinks. "But I was saying -- you people have corrupted me. We don't have *dead* in the Empire. We don't --" He shakes his head -- 

Paces to the bathroom -- 

It's still not full of blood. It's -- 

He moves back to the sitting room, and the viewscreen. Michael, Tyler, and Tilly are all laughing... uproariously. 

Tilly makes it look like the most natural thing in the world. 

Tyler and Michael look more as though they've been shocked into it, or pushed into it, or... 

Gabriel isn't entirely sure about it. He *is* sure that -- there. Right there: Tyler looks to Michael as his laughter dies down. 

After a beat, Michael looks to *Tyler*. 

Tyler looks like a man faced with a beautiful piece of art that has suddenly come to life and started talking to him. Or -- hm. No, it *wouldn't* be a perfect ship under his hands. Not for that boy. Seven months in nearly any sort of prison will starve a person for something *soft*, and a Klingon prison is by no means an outlier. 

Michael... 

Michael's eyes can be very, very soft, indeed. 

Dangerous. 

Gabriel puts the tumbler of adulterated whiskey down before he breaks the thing. It would take effort to make *this* sort of glass actually cut him when it broke, but he doesn't trust himself not to *make* that effort. 

The last thing he needs to do to himself is open himself up for those sorts of questions. 

And -- 

"Michael... the people we kill, the people who are killed *around* us... even the people we *love* who are murdered in *front* of us -- they're not *our* dead. They're just dead. *The* dead if we're feeling formal for some reason -- but, if so, we're probably just spewing propaganda so blatant that even the *cattle* can see it coming. They... the dead are *left*, Michael. *Rotting* where they lay.

"There is... we even *have* some decent poetry for it, which is just one more reason to distrust the entire genre, as far as I'm concerned -- Computer, reference Burnham three-delta --" 

"'What's gone and what's past help / Should be past grief.'" 

"Thank you --" 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca. However, analysis of the quote in context of the rest of the work in question --" 

"Context is for kings, not computers. Give me silence for now." 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

Gabriel takes a breath -- and laughs. "You'd help the computer argue with me. I know you would," he says, and reaches for her face, her -- 

She's moving out of the mess, loose-limbed and easy. 

Tyler isn't *quite* hanging back enough to *watch* her move, but... he can't keep his eyes off her. 

"You were naked in my *bed*, and I -- come back. Please come back. Please --" 

("Kings don't *beg*.") 

"*Fuck* --" But he can't stop the flood, the *rush* of memory -- 

He can't stop himself from *chasing* the flood -- 

From diving *deep* into the memory of *that* spar, *that* one, and it had been *right* after an interminable political dinner with Michael sitting at Philippa's right hand and Gabriel given the 'honor' of prowling the hall to assassinate the ill-behaved in *entertaining* ways. 

It was the usual sort of theater -- nothing remotely important and *guaranteed* to keep him away from every decent bit of intel on *offer* -- but. 

They had only been six years into Philippa's reign -- 

Michael had only just removed her *scars* -- 

And no one, absolutely *no* one, could be allowed to know how many people in the room were *actually* part of Philippa's inner circle. 

If Philippa could've managed it, she would've kept Michael's identity a secret until she had been in her *twenties*. Since she could not... she kept people like *Gabriel* in her hidden sheaths. 

A clown with a few usefully lethal tricks, nothing more -- and he had been young enough, *proud* enough, that it had galled. 

Until it was all over but the shaking -- 

Until he and Michael were *alone* again, and it had *been* his plan to bury himself in his Princess's needs until he could *breathe* again, until he could be no one but *hers* again, but -- 

("Kings don't *beg*." 

"Michael --" 

"Who are you? Mm? Who will you *be*.") 

And for a moment -- he remembers this with crystalline clarity -- the only thing he had felt was terror. 

Nothing beneath his feet, no air to breathe, and the cruelest winter of all come to break him and everything he cared about into *shards*. 

But -- 

("*Who*, Gabriel.") 

But then he'd remembered that there was only one thing, one person, one *variable* worth considering. 

And after that... 

Gabriel takes a shuddering breath and pulls himself -- out. 

Away. 

*Back*. 

"Computer, give me a visual of Specialist Burnham's current location." 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

And -- there she is, wandering through his lab full of weapons and other fascinating things.

Prowling through it --

Touching the air just *beyond* the cases -- before sitting down and opening up her notes. 

It. 

Mm. "Michael. Michael... I want to tell you everything. I want to *show* you everything. I want to teach you everything you haven't learned about the multiverse and I want to fuck you *blind* while I'm doing it, and --"

He pauses. 

He considers. 

"Computer, give me a visual of the current location of Lieutenant Tyler." 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

The viewscreen shifts to an image of Tyler giving Tilly some much-needed combat training. Some...

Hm. 

It...

Gabriel watches in fascination as Tyler teaches Tilly not one, not two, not five, but *eight* different ways to painfully murder an opponent over the course of twenty-seven minutes. 

She's a quick learner when it comes to this sort of thing -- which is the sort of cosmic resonance which makes Gabriel's heart warm -- but...

"Computer, about Tyler's psych evaluations."

"Question unclear, Captain Lorca." 

"Uh-huh. We'll leave that for the moment. Show me Burnham again." 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

And Michael is... not working. 

Not studying. 

Not even trying to break into any interesting *files*. 

Instead, she has one of the nastier blades -- it is, in fact, the Andorian one -- in her left hand, while her right is...

Not inside those good-girl trousers. 

*Not* playing with that clit so much as... pressing. 

Rhythmically. 

Her cheeks are flushed -- she isn't blushing one bit. 

Her lips are parted. 

Her eyes are -- wide open. 

She is... looking directly at one of the many, many cameras. Tracking it, as it tracks her. 

Gabriel taps his comm. "Burnham." 

She sets the blade down -- but *doesn't* stop working herself through her trousers before she taps her own. "Sir." 

Abruptly, there are dozens of questions in his mind, choking the back of his throat, *demanding* -- 

They -- 

"I. Need to know you," he says, doing nothing to make his voice less ragged, less *choked*, because every instinct he *has* demands that he be at least as blatant as she's being right now. 

"Would you like to do so while we... share space?" And that was both acerbic *and* unsure, and he deserves both. 

Both. "Come to me. *Come* to me." 

She grunts for that -- 

Flushes even more *deeply* -- 

All but *grips* at her own cunt through her trousers -- and Gabriel can't. 

*Can't*. 

"Computer, transport Specialist Burnham to my quarters." 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

And there's just enough time to see Michael's eyes widen *dramatically* on the viewscreen before -- 

"Sir, there will be a *record* of that transport --" 

"Shh," he says, moving to her side and taking her hand. Her *right* hand.

"Gabriel --" 

He brings the hand to his face and -- growls. Sniffs. Drags it all over and over and -- 

And there's that guttural noise, that perfect -- 

He pulls her in with his other hand, pulls her close by the hip, lets her feel how *hard* he is -- 

She moans -- 

He bites all four of her fingers -- 

"Nnh -- I -- *Gabriel*, please, we must --" 

He sucks and *slurps* his way off. "Must *what*, mm? And when did you *know* I was watching you today?" 

"I -- I..." 

He raises an eyebrow. 

She shakes her head once -- but doesn't try to pull back. She does, however, reach up -- with her *left* hand -- and tug out a contact lens. 

Just the one. 

She offers it to him. 

"I..." He frowns. "You don't *need* vision enhancement for any of your work, and the cybernetics we use for that don't involve --" 

"I required something more subtle, Gabriel. You have allowed me a significant amount of... latitude when it comes to the _Discovery's_ computer systems --" 

Gabriel barks a laugh -- he can't help it. "You convinced the computer to watch me watching *you*." 

*That* smile curls at the corner of her mouth. 

Gabriel growls and licks it, wet and messy -- 

"*Oh* --" 

Licks his way to her *ear* -- "Did you like it, Michael? Did you like watching me need you?"

"I..." 

"Tell me. *Tell* me." 

"I wanted. To know what you were saying to me." 

"I'll tell you. I'll *show* you," he says, and grips her by both hips -- 

"Now?" 

"No," he says -- too sharply. Too -- he shakes his head. "It's a diary as much as it's anything else. It's *yours*, but..." He pulls back and smiles ruefully.

She blinks rapidly -- 

Swallows -- 

And nods as though he'd finally given her an order she could understand down to her very soul. 

"Michael...?" 

"I have... spent a very long time wishing I could have conversations on... schedule." 

Gabriel grins helplessly. "I'd *like* to be of assistance with that, but --" 

"You have been. You --" She shakes her own head. "Please -- I want. You looked... distressed today --" 

"Don't --" 

"We do not have to speak about that, *either*. However..." And she raises an eyebrow at *him*. 

Gabriel nuzzles it. "I'm listening. *Believe* me, I'm listening." 

She sighs. "I would like to know... no." 

"Mm?" 

She tilts her head up and back and kisses him softly once -- 

Again -- 

*Again* -- 

"Michael..." 

"Yes. But first... I would appreciate an agenda for the evening." 

Gabriel blinks. 

Michael looks at him expectantly. 

Gabriel -- somewhat frantically; he can own this -- goes over and *over* the files on Vulcan physiology and sexuality he'd memorized while trying and failing to jerk off to something *illicit* as a teenager on Terra -- 

No, he's not coming up with anything there.

Nothing -- 

Still nothing -- 

"Gabriel, did I say something very strange?" 

"Um." 

She frowns and starts to pull *back* -- 

"Fuck, wait -- *wait* --" 

"Gabriel --" 

"I haven't -- done that. Before. That's all." 

She looks at him. Hard. 

"What? I'm telling the truth --" 

"There is more to that truth than what you are --" 

"I haven't done that before and I am *daunted*," he says, and laughs ruefully. "All right?" 

She bites her lip. "It's... I've never asked for it before." 

"From -- your lovers." 

"Yes," she says, and looks away -- 

Swallows -- 

Gabriel's cock -- jerks. He can't --

He strokes her cheek and turns her to face him. She's blushing now. 

Embarrassed -- 

"Don't be ashamed. Don't... you're making me so hard, Michael. You're making me -- and there's not one goddamned thing wrong with what you want." 

"Even though it's... daunting...?" 

"Exactly. And -- this way we actually do some talking first. That's not at *all* strange or daunting, because we *should* do it that way -- give each other more of an idea of what we *both* want, mm?" 

She narrows her eyes... covetously. 

"You like that idea..." 

"I would like... to speak with you extensively on these matters." 

"Then this: I force myself -- *force* myself -- not to look at your mouth. It's too beautiful. It's too *perfect*. I want to kiss it, bite it, pet it..." 

"Oh." She licks her lips -- wets them. 

"Thank you for that," Gabriel says, and grins.

Her eyes widen -- and she grins back. "Do you want to -- fuck my mouth?" 

"Absolutely. I also want to learn a great *deal* more about your familiarity and comfort with human vulgarities..." 

"I went to the *Academy*, Gabriel. The fact that I tend to eschew vulgarity as a matter of course does not mean --" 

"Say 'fuck' again. Please." 

She narrows her eyes -- 

Cocks her head to the side -- 

"I have spent a significant amount of time attempting to discern how large your *cock* is, so as to make my numerous fantasies of you *fucking* me with it more realistic." 

"Thank you *very* much for that, and I *apologize* for not getting hard enough the other night to let you get the entirely right idea --" 

"That -- wasn't...?" 

Gabriel shows his teeth. "Grief is a bastard, Michael --" 

"I *know* --" 

"First on the agenda," Gabriel says, and raises an eyebrow -- 

Michael inhales -- and nods. 

"I show you... every bit of me." 

"I was... somewhat less interested in perusing your internal organs..." 

Gabriel snorts. "Next on the agenda --" 

Michael coughs -- 

"I'm kidding," Gabriel says, "I only do that sort of thing with Tellarites." He keeps his expression as bland as *possible* -- 

She frowns *consideringly* -- 

*At* his crotch -- 

Hm. 

"Shall we start on the --" 

"Some of your scars... are raising questions within me," she says, and looks up with an eyebrow raise. 

As well they *should*, but -- Gabriel hums. "I tend to prefer leaving the scar-tale-telling until everyone's all relaxed and cuddled up and... safe. Secure." 

She narrows her -- no. Her eyes grow heavy-lidded. "I. I like this very much." 

He inclines his head. "We'll save that for later on the agenda, then." 

"I want... no. Please, continue." 

"Next on the agenda: You show me -- or tell me -- a little something about what you want," Gabriel says, and starts to strip. 

She frowns. 

"Unless, of course, you would prefer I show -- and tell, and *take* -- what I want." 

She spends a good while thinking about that, eyes elsewhere and mind even farther away. 

Gabriel focuses on stripping *efficiently* -- 

*All* the way down -- 

"Computer, increase temperature to twenty-four Celsius." 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

Gabriel then moves to the couch, sits with his legs splayed, and takes his *mostly*-erect cock in hand. "In case you'd like some help thinking things over..." 

She blinks and *then* looks at him -- 

And then looks at him like a meal that needs a whipping. 

Gabriel grins and starts to stroke himself slow and hard and just a little viciously. Just -- 

He makes it good for himself. Makes it -- 

But it's always good with Michael watching, always -- 

He's panting just that fast, leaking and -- 

"Michael..." 

"S-sir --" 

"No." 

"*Gabriel* -- I." 

"Do you want it...?" 

She stares at his *cock* -- 

It jerks for her obligingly -- 

She clenches *both* fists -- 

"I'd like to feel those hands on me, Michael..." 

"Oh -- how?" 

He shakes his head. "Any way. *Every* way." 

"That's a terrible answer," she says, and *unclenches* her fists. 

"I know, and I apologize. But... I need to feel *you*. I need to know *you*," he says, and squeezes himself until the pre-come drips -- 

And drips -- 

And then he strokes himself fast, *fast* for a little while, panting and staring into Michael's wide eyes. "Why don't you come closer, mm? Smell me. Taste me on the air..." 

Her thighs clench *hard* -- 

"You already can, can't you..." 

"Yes." 

"You like it?" 

"Yes, Gabriel, I --" 

"You want more...?" And Gabriel *stops* stroking himself with a grunted effort -- 

"No, don't --" 

"Shh," he says, and offers his -- dripping -- fingers. "Come get it, Michael. It's all yours." 

"Is this... next on the agenda?" 

Oh... "Yeah. Yeah, it is. You taste me. You let me *feel* you. You show me what you *want*." 

"Yes -- *yes*," she says, and *moves*, and he can smell *her* when she drops to her knees between his legs -- 

But only for a moment before she's yanking his fingers to her wet mouth, her greedy *mouth* -- 

Only for a moment before her other hand is tight and *mean* around his cock -- 

"Michael, *yes* --" 

She sucks and slurps and *licks* his fingers -- and she jerks him off like she means to take his cock with her when she goes. 

It's fine by him -- there's not one Michael in the multiverse who doesn't own it anyway. 

For now, though -- 

For now, he can bury his clean hand in those soft curls and force her to look at him, to see him while they're like this, while they're together, while they're *having* -- 

She looks so hungry, so -- 

"You're no needier than *I* am," he says, and he's fucking her fist, giving it to her, to both of them, and her calluses are fire, sweetness, and he wants her mouth, wants her cunt, wants her *ass* -- 

He -- 

"I want *everything*!" 

She whimpers and *bites* his fingers -- 

He grunts and jerks -- 

She gasps and aims his cock at her own *face*, and they see each other like that, just like that, just like -- 

"*Michael* --" 

He keeps his eyes open, he keeps them *wide* even when the heat and light take him so far that he can't see a damned thing -- 

He keeps them on *her* while his cock spills and spills -- 

All over that beautiful *face* -- 

He *keeps* her -- 

And he always will.


	11. Negotiation is an important part of any intimate relationship.

"Next... mm. On the agenda?" 

"Uhh..." 

And Michael... giggles. Like a girl. Like a human. 

Well, like a human from *this* universe. It -- 

Gabriel doesn't even try to stop himself from pouncing -- 

She tosses him most of the way across the room. 

Happily, Gabriel doesn't hit anything more fragile than his pride. 

"Oh -- Gabriel -- I didn't mean --" 

Gabriel sits *up*, dusts himself off somewhat ostentatiously, and smiles at his -- *his* -- beautiful girl. 

Dark, sweet, violent, and covered in come.

Perfect. 

"Hm. Something tells me that you're... not entirely displeased." 

"Not at *all* displeased, Michael," he says, standing and moving to offer her a hand. 

She takes it and allows herself to be hauled up and close -- 

"I am -- if you'll recall -- still dreaming of the filthiest *possible* spars." 

She blushes again. "I -- was not dreaming of that. In that moment." 

Gabriel laughs and licks -- some of -- the come off her face -- 

"Oh --" 

"What were you dreaming of, hmm?" 

"Prison. I -- would rather not discuss it." 

Gabriel *pauses* -- and takes her in. Her *wry* gaze. 

The tension there, and there -- 

"I've never actually been in a Starfleet prison..." 

"I am aware of that, Gabriel." 

Gabriel frowns, and -- doesn't say any of the things which come to mind first. They're all idiotic -- and far too telling about his actual identity. The fact that he hadn't expected warm-and-fuzzy Starfleet to let their prison colonies turn as brutal as such places always tended to... is a fact.

And a flaw in his reasoning that might have turned fatal. 

He kisses her forehead instead. "I would like it if you spoke with me about this... in the future." 

She cocks her head to the side and studies him. Openly. Clearly. 

*Calmly*. 

After a long moment, she relaxes all over. "I will consider it." 

"Thank --" 

"Please lick me more."

Gabriel growls and grins at the same time, showing his tongue. "Would you like *that* to be next on the agenda...?" 

She *obviously* considers that for a moment --

He helps her out by licking the come from her cheek slowly and *wetly* -- 

She shudders. "Gabriel. I..." 

"Mm...?"

"Do you enjoy the way I... taste?" 

"Yes. And I'm enjoying the hell out of the way we taste *together*." 

Another one of those *guttural* noises -- and she wraps her arms around his chest, presses close -- 

Drags her cheek against his chest -- 

Claws his *back* with her short nails -- 

"Do that... all the time, please." 

She bites his nipple, instead -- 

"Fuck -- Michael --" 

"Next on the agenda..." 

"Yes?"

"You *tell* me what you wish to do right now. *Exactly* what you wish to do," she says, and looks up into his eyes. 

Gabriel pants and cups her ass. "One, I want you naked -- the way I had you the other night, only more so, because you're *wetter* than you were the other night." 

"I... am very curious about how you know that, considering the fact that we did not engage in coitus." 

Terrans from my universe are just a little different from the ones *here*, Michael... "Fervent hope," he says, and winks. 

She snorts at him -- 

"And... deduction. I don't think you were at *all* ready to play with yourself in front of a *camera* for me the other night. Were you." 

"I -- no." 

He inclines his head. "So, one, *naked*. Two: On the bed, on your *back*. Head on the pillow, feet planted, legs *spread*... but not *too* wide. Not yet." 

She blinks rapidly -- "Why not?" 

"Because," he says, and squeezes her ass *firmly*, lifting her up onto her toes -- 

She *grunts* -- 

He *grinds* her against his still-hypersensitized cock and *growls* -- 

"I -- *Gabriel* --" 

He doesn't *stop*, but -- "Was that a no...?" 

"N-no -- answer -- please *answer*." 

"Anything. I don't want you spread too wide right away because *three*: I want to shove my face into your cunt -- which you are wonderful enough not to depilate." 

"What... does that have to do with anything...?" 

"Your scents, Michael. Your scents and your *flavors*. I want them to be as intense as *possible* when I get in there. I want to be all but *blinded* by them --" 

"I -- I *wash* --" 

"Which is all the more reason to do what we can to *preserve* the scents and flavors which *are* there... until I can lick them *all* away," he says, raising his eyebrows and grinding her in that much harder.

She stares into him for long moments -- more thoughtful than heated. 

"I'm listening." 

"I... this will arouse you more? Or will you do it in order to make me more amenable to being fucked?" 

Gabriel hums. "You're telling me some godawful things about the people you fucked before *me*, Michael --" 

"I --" 

He leans in to *bite* the last bit of come off her left cheek -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

He licks his way to her ear -- "Michael. I won't say I enjoy every kind of sex -- I don't. But..." He moves one hand between them -- 

*Shoves* it between her legs where her trousers are hot and *damp* -- 

"Michael..." 

"I -- I -- *please* --" 

He grips her by the cunt and squeezes *hard* -- 

"*Hnh* -- *Gabriel* --" 

He bites her earlobe. "Michael. I will be very, very, *very* surprised if we somehow come up with a sexual act that *you* want to perform that doesn't make *me*... ache." 

She pauses, all over -- 

"Mm...?" 

"That... felt like a dare." 

Gabriel laughs hard and *sucks* her earlobe, then steps back -- a little. "It *wasn't*, I promise. But... mm. Feel free to take it as one, Michael. Feel free to... always, *always* *challenge* me." 

"*Yes* --" 

"Now. Where were we? Ah, yes, *four*." 

"What -- is four?" 

"*After* I make you scream with my face in your cunt -- and I truly will be putting my back into that, so I would appreciate it if you'd work with me on that --" 

Another *giggle* -- 

Fuck -- Gabriel grins helplessly and starts getting her out of her *clothes*. "*Four*... is where I think I surprise you a little. I *think*." 

She frowns. 

"I know... you want an agenda. You want specifics. You want to *prepare* yourself. Right?" 

"Yes -- I. It will help. It *does* help." 

He pushes her tunic off her shoulders and looks her in the eye. "Do you trust me?" 

"As much as I trust -- nearly -- anyone," she says, and smiles wryly. 

Gabriel -- breathes. And pauses before lifting her undershirt. "I'd like more than that." 

"How much do you trust *me*, Gabriel?" 

"More than anyone in the multiverse," he says, with absolute honesty. He already knows he can't trust himself very deeply anymore...

"Oh." 

He smiles ruefully. "I know. I know I haven't been..." He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. I'll show you everything and -- you'll see --" 

"Gabriel --" 

"*Tonight*, Michael. Tonight, I want to give you something that I *promise* you is that much better -- that much more intense and *shattering* -- when you *aren't* prepared for it," he says, and raises an eyebrow. 

"Give..." She frowns deeply. "And it is a form of lovemaking which two humans can engage in?" 

"That's right. And I know you've done the *reading*, and I know you've fooled around -- perhaps even extensively. But." 

She nods slowly. "It is different with... a partner." 

"Or a lover," he says, because he has to, because -- 

"Gabriel --" 

"A true lover," he says, and tugs her shirt off --

Cups her breasts through her bra -- 

"I'll be your lover long after we're both *dead*," he says -- and growls at himself when her eyes widen -- 

When she starts to step *back* -- 

"Michael -- I --" 

But she shoves her hands into his hair and kisses him, yanks him close and *kisses* him -- 

Gabriel groans into her mouth and walks them back to the bedroom, stripping her roughly, awkwardly -- 

But she's helping even as it makes their kiss messy, loud -- 

A clash of teeth -- 

She licks his mouth -- 

She *grins* at him when he gasps -- 

She cries out when he bites her *entire* mouth -- 

But then she's on the bed, on her back, and he's yanking off those trousers -- 

She wriggles out of her plain, practical panties herself -- and keeps her legs nearly pressed *together*. 

She -- 

Gabriel pants and retrieves the panties from where they're dangling off the edge of the bed -- 

"Gabriel...?" 

He shoves the wettest part in his mouth and sucks hard, sucks desperately, sucks and holds steady as his rising cock jerks and *jerks*, and -- fights back a sob, because he wasn't just imagining it: she tastes very little like his Princess. 

It makes sense. 

Everything *about* their diets is different, and has *been* different for nearly twenty *years*. 

But. 

But she tastes exactly like *her*, like the Michael who's on *this* bed, staring up at him with wide eyes and parted lips and a hand creeping down and down to her *cunt* -- 

She's spreading her *legs* -- 

Gabriel growls and tugs the panties *out*, tossing them away. "Keep those hands on the *bed*." 

"Oh -- yes!" And Michael obeys, gripping the sheets to either side of her hips. "Please -- don't make me *wait*." 

"Tell me you'll let me *surprise* you --" 

"*Yes*, I -- but only for that one thing! For now!" 

"*Thank* you," he says, all but *snarls*, and he's crawling onto the bed, opening her legs with his *face*, pushing in and in -- 

Breathing in -- 

*Gulping* air and growling, *needing* -- 

He uses his thumbs to spreads her cunt *wide* and she's dripping, slick, purple brightening to pink and -- "You're so *beautiful*," he says, and shoves his tongue deep without preamble -- 

She *chokes* on a cry -- and that cry *immediately* becomes a sharp little scream when Gabriel *sucks* her cunt and starts fucking in with his tongue fast and sweet -- 

So sweet for her, and he'll always be -- 

So long as she *needs* -- 

She kicks *out* -- 

She bucks -- 

And it's time to tease a little -- just a little. Gabriel *stops* sucking and kisses, just kisses -- 

Michael all but *squawks* -- 

Gabriel grins and kisses *firmly*, kisses her all around her clit until she *grinds* up against his mouth like a dancer and -- oh -- 

He wraps his arms around those strong thighs and holds her -- not still, just steady. He grinds right back, kisses and suckles, licks and kisses *dirtier* -- 

"*Gabriel*! I -- I --" 

"What do you want, mm...?" And he's slurring more than speaking, he won't take his mouth *away* from her, won't stop drinking her *down* -- "*Tell* me..." 

"P-please --" 

"This...?" And he kisses her clit softly and licks even more gently than that -- and her hands are in his hair, gripping and yanking him *in*, *demanding* -- 

"Gabriel, *please*!" 

\-- or just begging with the kind of need Gabriel hasn't felt in -- 

In -- 

He can't think of that -- 

He *won't* think -- 

He'll suckle her, he'll give her what they *both* need, what coils in his belly and *demands*. 

He'll suck *hard* right on her little piss-hole -- 

She *clutches* him with her thighs and *claws* his scalp -- 

Yes -- fuck, then right here, right -- 

He sucks her there more, licks and -- 

"N-no, lower, please -- I --" 

He *moves*, gives it to the opening of her cunt, makes love to it, makes *promises* to it, *grinds* against it with his face and grinds against the bed with his cock -- 

And she's panting for him, taking sharp and *sobbing* breaths as she bucks and bucks and -- 

Oh, but she's whining, begging without *words* -- 

He suckles there and fucks with his tongue, gives it to her, gives it to her as hard as he can -- 

And that sound *might* have been the beginning of his name, but the rest of it is a *growled* scream -- 

Gabriel's cock is jerking and *leaking* -- and he and Michael are growling and cursing together as she spills on his face, as she -- 

Oh, Michael -- 

Oh -- 

He licks it up, he grinds it into her cunt and he licks it *up* -- 

"*Gabriel*!" 

He bends her in half and he *devours* her, because he needs, he needs, he -- 

Her thighs are trembling on his shoulders -- and then they lock tight and *problematically* promising around his *head*. 

It. Hm. He *stops* devouring her...

She croons breathlessly -- stops that. "Please -- set me down." 

Gabriel does just that, licking his lips and tugging the few hairs out of his mouth.

They -- look at each other. Into each other. 

They *see* each other. 

And then Michael takes a good, long look at his cock and licks her perfect, bitten lips. They're fuller now. They -- 

Gabriel shakes it off a little and sits on his heels, squeezing his cock hard at the base. "You see what you do to me...?"

"You -- made me scream." 

"I'd like to do it again... imminently." 

"By... surprising me." 

Gabriel inclines his head. 

Michael nods thoughtfully. "Will you tell me why you don't want to engage in a more mutual sharing of pleasure?" 

What to say... no. A certain degree of bald, *embarrassing* honesty has worked wonders with Michael. Whatever she *comes* to need in the future, in *this* moment she has no need for a King. 

So. 

Gabriel smiles ruefully and gestures to himself, his quarters -- 

She raises an eyebrow --

"I want you here. *Right* here." 

"You have achieved your goals --" 

"I want you here tomorrow night, too. And the night after that, and the night after *that*... am I making myself clear?" 

She flushes. "I know I have not made any... declarations, but --" 

He holds up a hand. "I'm not asking for one, Michael. Not right now, and not for some time to come." Not until we're... something like home.

"Then... what?"

He takes one of her hands in his own, and strokes the knuckles with his thumb. "I want, in this moment, to teach you to associate this place -- and me, and my *touch* -- with *blinding* pleasure --" 

"So that I am *driven* to return time and time again, yes, I see," she says, and cocks her head to the side. "And you do not believe you can do this with your cock?" 

He licks his lips and meets her gaze steadily. "I believe -- I *know* -- I'll have a lot less control once we start getting my cock into play." 

That eyebrow reaches for the stars. 

Gabriel hums. "You're right; I'm no teenager *and* I know exactly what I'm doing in and around a bed. But... ah. I'm still a man, and I'm still the man you drive crazy *effortlessly*." 

"I believe you have not spent quite enough time with my psych evaluations, Gabriel." 

"*I* believe you haven't been counter-stalking me enough --" 

"Gabriel. How do you *truly* believe I will respond to a powerful individual losing control because of me? *With* me. *For* me." 

Gabriel -- stares.


	12. Mine.

The thing is, there have been remarkably few occasions over the years which have left Gabriel feeling honestly poleaxed. 

Surprised? Sure. 

Chagrinned? Absolutely. 

Bemused? All the time, as sentience is a beautiful mystery. 

But -- poleaxed is a subset of emotions which tends to lead to messy fatalities in the Empire. It pays to be rather phlegmatic as a matter of course, and -- 

And he's babbling in his mind, possibly turning into another *Tilly*, because what he's doing -- 

What he's *actually* doing -- 

He's flipped Michael onto her hands and knees -- 

He's shoved her face down to the *sheets* -- 

She's *let* him -- 

She's *letting* him -- 

And in *this* moment, he's massaging her round, muscular ass, and giving it to himself, promising himself, dreaming -- 

Panting like a *dog* -- 

"Gabriel..." 

*Spreading* her *wide* -- 

"This is mine," he says. 

"Oh --" 

"This is what losing control *looks* like, Michael," he says, and licks a *long* stripe along her cleft -- 

"NNGH --" 

"One piece at a time..." 

"Gabriel --" 

"Let me. I *promise* I won't make *either* of us come this way." 

"*Fuck* --" 

"*Let* me!"

"Yes!"

"Oh, Michael -- my *Michael* --" 

"Gabriel -- *HNH* --" 

That for his tongue, shoving deep -- 

Wriggling *deep*, and she's his, she's all *his*, and it's up to him to make her *see* that -- 

Make her *feel* it. 

He *fucks* her ass with his tongue, spreads her wider -- 

"I -- I --" 

He presses his lips to her hole and *hums* -- 

She caws like a seabird and punches the *bed* -- 

He hums louder, *harder* -- 

She shouts and *shoves* herself back against his face -- 

That's it -- 

Oh, that's just *right*, and he's nodding for it, licking *nearly* all the way out before shoving back in, nuzzling, kissing -- no. 

He *sucks* kisses to her puckered little hole -- 

She flexes and clenches *hard* -- 

She gasps and *screams* -- 

He *smacks* her ass with one hand -- 

"*Gabriel*!" 

He hums and sucks hard, *hard*, and now she's crying out for him, shouting and -- 

Oh, those sounds mean she's *clawing* at the bed, rucking up the sheets -- 

She's *writhing* against his face, shoving back and back for a few strokes of his tongue before grinding, shuddering -- 

Sobbing and *whining* -- 

He kisses her, kisses her and *kisses* her -- 

*Slurps* at her hole -- 

She screams again, and Gabriel hears her beating at the bed again -- 

She's trying to *kick* -- 

He won't let her go. Not yet. 

He fucks her hole fast and *dirty* for long moments before getting one hand into position, before cupping her cunt and squeezing, pressing, *rocking* -- 

She *howls* for him, and now Gabriel is sweating all over, hard as he's ever *been*, panting and *growling* -- 

He squeezes her *harder*, ass and cunt -- 

"P-please! *Please*!" 

He *smacks* her cunt -- 

"*Fuck* -- do not make me come!" 

And it's his turn to whine, his turn to beg with his noise, his body, his -- 

Everything *about* himself -- 

He *needs* -- 

"You *promised*!" 

\-- but. 

He *had* promised, and, more to the point, he'd promised *Michael*. 

He growls desperately and *hauls* himself back, licking the musk and sweat from his lips and letting his cock jerk and spasm all it *wants*. 

He can't take his hands off Michael. Not -- 

Not yet. 

She's moaning for him, scrubbing her face against the sheets -- 

Struggling to remain steady on her hands and knees... no. 

Gabriel flips her onto her back again, and lets her see him, lets them see *each other*. Right now, right here.

Her eyes are wide, but not frightened. 

Her eyes are *wild*, but not angry. 

She -- 

"Gabriel," she says, and she's shaking, panting, *smiling* -- 

"Michael --" 

"Lose. Control." 

He doesn't kiss her when he covers her. He doesn't -- 

She *yanks* him down and bites his *mouth*, and her other hand is on his cock, *harsh* on his cock, and she's guiding him -- 

He's growling and helping her guide him -- 

Her legs are around his *chest* -- 

Her eyes are -- so *bright* -- 

And Gabriel is groaning into her mouth as he pushes in, in, so -- 

She uses her strong legs to *haul* him in the rest of the way -- 

They gasp together -- 

"*Michael* --" 

Her eyes are wide again -- "I -- was not expecting..." 

He reaches between them to stroke her abdomen, trying not to lose his mind for the heat, for the *softness*, trying to stay a little -- a little *sane* -- 

"Gabriel... please," she says, and her eyes are soft again, wide and so -- 

"Anything. *Anything* --" 

"I need you to lose *control* --" 

"No --" 

"Please *give* that to me," she says, and reaches up to cup his face, to stroke his cheeks, to urge him, and. 

She doesn't want a King. 

She doesn't even want a Captain. 

She -- wants him. This -- he doesn't know who the fuck that *is*, but -- 

"Then -- make me a promise, Michael," he says and starts to move. Starts to *grind* into all that tight, slick *heat*. 

"Gnh -- I -- I --" 

"Just one little promise. I swear," he says, and lets himself shove in *hard* -- 

"*Yes* -- please, I -- what *promise*?" 

He shows his teeth. "Don't *leave*." 

She grunts for him -- 

He shoves in again -- 

Again and *again* -- 

She sobs and *clutches* him with her thighs -- "I -- Gabriel, I --" 

"Don't leave me, Michael. Don't you --" He growls and gives it to her hard, gives it to her *fast* -- 

"*Yes*! Please, *yes*!" 

"*Michael*." 

She *bucks* up beneath him, rises to meet every thrust, rises and -- 

She's staring into his eyes and she -- 

Oh, she -- 

He snarls and grips her by the throat, fucking her harder, *having* her as her mouth opens in a soundless scream -- "*Promise* me!" 

She squeezes her eyes shut and *jerks* beneath him, cunt flexing and clenching *violently* hard -- oh -- 

She's coming for him -- 

She's coming for *this* -- 

"*Michael* --" 

He can't. He -- 

He *releases* her throat and grips her by the hair, instead, yanks her down to the bed by it, and kisses her with his dirty mouth, makes her take that, makes her take all of him and all of *herself*. 

She groans and nods and *ripples* around him -- 

Gabriel gasps and shoves and spasms and *shoves* in -- 

"Gabriel..." 

"I *love* you --" 

"I -- I promise --" 

And Gabriel can't hear anything else, can't *fucking* see -- 

He's biting her throat, holding her down, fucking her fast and *violently* -- 

She's holding him so tightly -- 

So -- 

She's holding him with her arms and legs, and she's whispering in his ear, kissing and -- 

He can't *hear* -- but then she *bites* his ear, bites hard enough to *hurt* -- 

" -- my Gabriel..." 

And he's losing himself, losing -- 

He's coming hard and hot, spilling right up this tight, perfect cunt -- 

This tight, perfect *home* -- 

He'll show her everything -- 

He'll teach her -- 

He rolls them until he's on his back -- 

"*Gabriel* --" 

\-- and he *works* her on his still-spasming cock as it gets more and more *excruciating*. Up and down and *up*, and those small tits bounce so -- 

And she cups them and *offers* them to him -- 

She raises an *eyebrow* -- 

And Gabriel's cock spits *just* a little more. 

Michael blinks... adorably. 

Gabriel hums and lets himself slow to a stop, lets himself shake out his trembling arms. "Were you expecting something... different?" 

"I... you had not showed any particular interest in my breasts before this moment." 

"I might have been showing interest in that eyebrow of yours." 

She *looks* at him -- and then stops that.

And frowns... 

And frowns more *deeply*...

Gabriel laughs and folds his arms behind his head. "In answer to your question: I love your breasts. I just hadn't *gotten* to them, yet." Because I happen to know for a fact that they aren't very sensitive, compared to the rest of you. 

"And my... expressions?" 

"Everything *about* you, Michael. *Everything*." 

This time, her expression is thoughtfully *pinched*. 

Gabriel laughs more. "Yes...?" 

"I do not think..." She shifts above him -- carefully. After a few moments, she's settled on her knees, and Gabriel's softening cock just isn't as wonderfully *deep* anymore.

He sighs for that -- 

She gives him another *look* -- 

Gabriel hums and inclines his head -- 

And Michael smiles ruefully and begins to stroke and *molest* Gabriel's sweaty chest. She never looks away from his eyes, however, when she says: "I do not believe I have ever been -- loved. The way you love me." 

Gabriel can't hold back a sharp breath. "I won't say no one will ever love you the way I do, Michael -- I tend to think it's the sane thing to *do*, after all --" 

"Gabriel --" 

"Wait," he says, and moves one hand enough to hold it up between them. 

She frowns at him -- but nods. 

"Thank you," he says, and takes another breath. "You already have *my* psych profiles. You know how obsessive I am. How emotional. How... romantic." 

Her expression quirks as she cocks her head to the side. "Other words were used, at times." 

"Mm. So they were. Michael... I'm shooting myself somewhere *extremely* painful to say this, but a woman like *you* -- raised the way you were raised --" 

"Don't --"

"-- should, *perhaps*, think seriously about spending time around as many people like *me* as possible." 

"I…" She frowns thoughtfully. "That was not what I expected you to say."

He smiles ruefully. "I know. But..."

"Do you *want* to be my... mentor?"

Gabriel shudders -- 

His Princess is there, above him. 

Fourteen and whipcord-lean. 

Fourteen and roped with muscle over bone -- and her dark skin sleek between the roadmap of scars. 

No breasts to speak of. 

Hips more of a promise than anything else. And -- 

("Are you my lover now, Gabriel?") 

From any other fourteen-year-old, the question would be unforgivably naive. 

From his Princess... 

From the *girl* who had been *beaten* and *broken* and *honed* out of the vast majority of human emotional responses by the most powerful woman in the universe -- 

From his Princess, it had been a request for knowledge from her teacher -- the man she'd been taught she could provisionally trust for such things. He -- 

("I'm everything you want, for as long as you want."

"That's not true of anyone --" 

"I'll show you -- but it'll *probably* take some time.") 

And his Princess had laughed behind her huge, beautiful eyes -- 

Flashed her *teeth* in the smile he'd been teaching her that it was safe to *share* with him -- 

Always with *him* -- 

And then -- 

"I believe you are thinking of... but. Was the person you lost your subordinate?" 

Gabriel shudders and squeezes his eyes shut. "You have my --" 

"Do not apologize," Michael says, and cups his face. "You were her mentor, in at least some respects." 

"Yes. I -- she was -- she was... younger. But she quickly became my equal in every way that mattered." 

Michael frowns at him confusedly -- 

And Gabriel remembers that the vast majority of the command structure on this universe's _Buran_ was male. Well, he could've been speaking metaphorically. He shakes his head. "I -- please." 

Michael nods once. "We need not speak of this." 

"I promise I will, with you. But -- not yet." 

"As you say." 

"And, in answer to your question..." Gabriel smiles ruefully and cups her hands in his own. "I don't want to give up any part of you, at any time, to *anyone*. By which I mean I'll always crave the part of you which looks to me *for* mentoring even when I'm *burying* myself *helplessly* in the part of you which looks to me for a lover -- or for other things entirely." 

She nods slowly for that...

And then she stands up off his cock and moves off the bed *entirely*. 

That...

Gabriel sits up on his elbows. "Was it something I said?"

She looks his torso over *covetously*.

He raises an *eyebrow* -- 

She hums. "I promised Tilly I would help her choose an outfit for the party..." She checks the display ostentatiously. "... which will start little more than fourteen hours from now." 

"Yes, *fourteen hours* --" 

"In the midst of that time, *Captain*... we have our duty-shift. And I believe a superior officer mentioned to me the responsibility of eating and sleeping --" 

Gabriel growls. "I... have to give you time to get Tilly on the same page with you about all the time you *won't* be spending in your quarters." 

She grins. "Yes, you *do*," she says, and gathers her clothes before moving close once more -- 

He cups her face and -- nuzzles, not kisses. *Extensively*. 

"Oh... Gabriel..." 

"Do you like that? Mm?" 

In response, she nuzzles him back, licking the corners of his mouth before kissing them. "Tonight." 

Gabriel pants. "Michael," he says, and -- "Tonight." 

He lies back then, watching every moment of her dressing -- 

Of her neatening herself enough that *most* of the beings on the ship won't be able to tell what she's been up to -- 

Of her walking out the door. 

Once she's gone, he summons the construct to his bed. 

She smiles warmly at him, silent and insubstantial as she curls on her side to face him. 

He tells her stories of his childhood until he has to sleep.


	13. Mondays are the worst.

The first time Harry *fucking* Mudd starts raving about trapping Gabriel and all of _Discovery_ in a time loop -- 

And, honestly, what kind of Klingons *are* the ones in this universe that they can't even keep one smarmy little con-man behind bars long enough for a disruptor-shot to the *head*?

But. 

The *first* time Gabriel realizes he's in a time loop, he vows to remember so he can fucking *fix* it. 

However, because life is what it is, and because *revenge* is what it is, Mudd kills him. 

Mudd kills him, oh, *dozens* of times. 

He knows this *mainly* because the man can't stop himself from *gloating* about it even as he tries -- and mostly fails; he's no Terran -- to get *creative* about things. Sure, any number of the deaths are *exceedingly* painful -- Mudd finds Lorca's own cache of weapons quickly enough -- but, in the end, the man has a limited amount of time within the confines of the loop *to* kill Gabriel. 

There's only so much suffering Mudd can dish *out*. 

In this respect -- 

Well, it's not Michael he's hurting. 

It's not *Michael*, and that's the thought which follows him into the black again -- 

Again -- 

Again and again and -- 

He'd like to know *something* about the plan, about what's *happening* in the world outside of his personal series of executions -- he's the Captain of this ship and he fucking well knows his crew is *somehow* taking advantage of the fact that Mudd is so focused on getting revenge on *him* -- 

He'd like a lot of things. 

He -- 

He dies. 

He *dies* -- 

He -- 

And then he's on the bridge, and the party that Michael left him to prepare for is happening, and he knows full fucking well that Tyler is there, and that if the man has any balls whatsoever he'll be making his move. 

Which...

Well. 

There's a lot to consider there. A lot to... but there's *something* wrong beyond that. There *is*, something strange, something -- 

He can't place it. 

He's on the bridge, and so are all the unlucky bastards who pulled this shift with him, and who all *obviously* want to be at the party -- 

There's nothing especially... 

But he *knows* there's something wrong, knows it better when Michael, his *Michael*, walks onto the bridge --

He can feel the wrong in his bones -- 

The base of his spine -- 

There's something -- even *beyond* how close she's standing to Tyler, how easily they move together, how -- 

But fucking *Mudd* is there, and he's got control of their ship -- *Gabriel's* ship -- and Gabriel remembers what's happened, all the *deaths* -- 

All of Mudd's pathetic *revenge* fantasies, and of fucking *course* Mudd wants the spore drive, wants to sell them out to the Klingons, wants revenge on the whole of Starfleet just like -- 

Fuck, he actually thinks of himself as some kind of *freedom* fighter, a *spokesman* for the *little* people getting trampled, blah, blah. 

Well, Gabriel has known all his *fucking* life what to do with people like -- 

He dies. 

*Again*. 

Before -- 

But then he's on the bridge, and the party is -- 

Is...

What? 

Michael is right there, and so is Tyler, and they're close enough -- shoulder to fucking *shoulder* -- that Gabriel is thinking seriously of taking up *culinary* assassination -- 

*His* Michael had always appreciated that particular art -- 

("Honestly, Gabriel, it's not as though one can get farm-to-table any other way in *space*.") 

\-- for all that Gabriel had found it more petty than anything else -- 

Gabriel is willing to make an *exception* -- 

But Stamets is there, too, speaking fast and clear, and his eyes are about twenty years older than they were the last time Gabriel had *seen* them, and -- 

And he remembers what happened. 

All the *deaths*. 

They all remember. 

They -- his *crew* -- remember going down with the *ship*. 

Over and over and -- 

It. 

Well. 

They know what they have to do. 

And -- 

They do it. They -- 

He watches Michael die in *front* of him and he doesn't scream, he doesn't claw his own eyes out, he doesn't -- 

They do what they need to do, because the plan is *sound*, and -- and. 

Once Mudd is contained -- and his tricky little temporal fuckery device safely *destroyed* -- 

Though a part of Gabriel -- a very large part -- can't help but *want* one for his own -- 

It's all over but the shouting. Or, in this case, since this is Starfleet and Gabriel is categorically not allowed to torture Mudd to death... 

Well. 

They can't, actually, dump him on the tender mercies of Starfleet's correctional facilities, since every crime he committed technically occurred in timestreams that have been folded in on themselves and canceled. 

The fact that they all *remember* those crimes -- or, at the very least, the *trauma* of them -- 

Starfleet regulations are constipatedly clear on this one. 

So. It becomes his job, as the _Discovery's_ Captain, to come up with *something* to ease a little of his crew's pain. To that end, he has his crew track down the last few people Mudd had conned -- no one asked how Gabriel got the identifying information out of Mudd, which is just one of many things which makes Gabriel... dream, when it comes to this crew -- 

But. 

The information shakes down to a few possibles. All but one were petty cons, really. Nothing *emotional* enough to make things juicy. 

The last, however, was the 'Stella' whom Mudd had spent a truly fascinating amount of time raving about -- in prison and out -- as though she had been the great love of his life whom Starfleet had -- somehow -- stolen away. 

The truth is, of course, that Stella was just one of many people Mudd had *rolled* in the interest of money, contacts, and rare goods. And, as it happens, she's *extremely* happy to know they've tracked down her man for her. 

The reunion happens with great good cheer on the crew's part -- and a lovely degree of sweating terror on Mudd's part -- and they damned well get the asshole off their ship. 

Though...

Gabriel palms the hypospray he'd used on the back of Mudd's neck before handing him over, tucking it into the small sheath he'd had built into this tunic. 

No matter what... they're not going to see Mudd again. 

He turns to speak to his crew, to offer words of congratulations and encouragement here and there as needed -- 

To *assess* which ones among this group will actually need some of that vaunted Starfleet counseling *before* their own minds spackle over all those half-real memories -- but.

Michael is watching him from across the room. She. 

Her eyes are the wrong kind of wide as her gaze flicks to the hand he'd had the hypospray in. 

She...

She turns away, and walks out, and Tyler follows her. 

Gabriel can do nothing of the kind, at the moment.


	14. Public introspection is pretty much the same, in the Empire, as Russian roulette.

Gabriel spends the rest of his shift tense and *struggling*.

Michael is in Engineering with Stamets and Tilly, attempting to pull something useful, something tactically *viable*, out of the temporal clusterfuck they'd just been through. 

Gabriel wants her on the bridge. 

Gabriel wants her *eyes* -- 

He has -- no idea what's in his own. It -- 

It's *practical* for them to be away from each other right now -- especially since Tyler is here on the bridge, and thus nowhere he can insinuate himself further into her *life*. 

What had he been doing during the temporal loop? 

What had *they* been doing while Gabriel was *dying*?

How many *times* -- 

Gabriel pinches the bridge of his nose and -- doesn't. 

He stops. 

He *stops*. 

He blanks his mind of everything but thoughts which could reasonably be approved by the Gabriel Lorca of *this* universe -- 

And then the image of what the tardigrade had left of this universe's Landry rises in his mind -- 

The woman had been so perfect, so loyal, so sure, so *violent* -- 

She would've held Mudd *still* for the hypospray -- 

She would've *lectured* Michael on the *necessity* -- 

And when it came down to *Tyler*, she -- 

No. 

*No* Landry would've punted Tyler out an airlock *solely* for *wanting* to get his cock wet with one of Gabriel's women -- even if the woman *was* Michael. 

Tyler was too good at his actual *job*. Too useful. Too *important* to the *mission* -- possibly even to the mission *under* the mission -- Gabriel has to get *home*, damnit -- 

No. Landry wouldn't have killed him, then. She would've... 

Gabriel scans the bridge for problems he might have to actually focus on -- nothing, at the moment. All right, then, he can think about this. 

What *would* Landry have done with a threat to her Captain's -- or, in another universe, her *leader's* -- *equilibrium*?

A threat which, despite its inconvenience, remained *useful* -- potentially even *vital*. 

A *threat*... which happened to make the (only) most important person in Gabriel's life... smile. 

And -- he can see it. Of fucking *course* he can -- 

She's there, clear as life and twice as fucking *sarcastic*. She -- 

He remembers everything *about* that day --

("Permission to speak freely, sir?" 

"Since when do you *not* have that permission, Landry?"

"Heh. Then -- suck it up.") 

And he'd stared at her for that. Just stared. 

She'd stared *back*. *Blandly*. 

*Waiting* for him to -- cope. 

So he'd taken a breath -- 

Downed the rest of his whiskey -- 

Gestured to one of the chairs in his ready room -- 

("No, thank you, sir. This *won't* take long." 

"No, Landry?" 

"No, sir. I have faith in *both* of us,") she'd said, and her smirk had been sharp enough to bleed on. 

It -- 

Gabriel had nodded, thrown *himself* back in a chair, and -- 

And it had all been right there for him. 

Michael had been -- nineteen. Not any older. 

Philippa had given her a *lot* of responsibilities on *paper* -- and just a few beyond that. She'd long since been presented to the nobility, and she'd damned well started the process -- with Gabriel's assistance -- of *culling* the nobility for her *own* needs. 

But she didn't have her own ship. 

She'd *never* had her own *command*. 

She'd been restless, and *bored*, and literally the only people she could *speak* with *safely* were Gabriel and *Philippa* -- and Philippa was getting to be less and less of a potential confidant the more serious Michael's relationship with Gabriel became. 

The more... treasonous. 

Gabriel had winced. Even if Philippa *had* approved the idea of marrying Michael off so young, it wouldn't be to *him*. Not to just another one of her *own* weapons -- there was the *Empire* to consider.

And, even if Philippa *would*, the problem of how to keep Michael's beautiful *mind* occupied between whatever missions she could be allowed to undertake... would remain. 

*Michael* had known that perfectly well. 

So had Landry. 

So, probably, had that psychotic little freak of a torturer she'd been *entertaining* so often back then. McCoy *had* to know that he *was* the entertainment, that Michael had only been using him and his *skills* on the condemned to make her *brain* stop *devouring* itself. 

He had to *know* that, and so he had to know his days were *numbered*, and so Gabriel could just *fucking* relax. 

Right then and there. 

Landry had snorted. *At* him. ("No, sir?") 

Gabriel had grunted. ("He's -- older." 

"He's your -- age. Hunh. All right, got it. I'll take care of him --") 

Gabriel had waved a hand. 

Her eyebrow raise had been acidly skeptical enough to eat through the hull. 

("I meant that, Landry -- you were right the first time." 

"You're not *fit* enough to leave the situation as it stands, sir.") 

He'd shown his teeth for that -- and toasted her. ("You're absolutely right, Landry. Which is why I will *not* leave it as it stands.") 

A frown. ("You're not going to frag the little freak yourself, are you? That could get --"

"Not at all, darlin',") he'd said, letting himself drawl, letting himself throw his feet up on the table. ("*I*... am going to introduce our Princess to a better class of *people*.") 

She'd grunted for that, lips curling in something she might've even believed was a smile. ("But not too much better, sir...?") 

Gabriel had smiled benignly. ("Who can say what the future will bring, Landry...?" 

"*You*, you fucker. Am I dismissed?"

"You absolutely are. Find me three -- no. *Four* people who know how to have a conversation with someone smarter, stronger, and meaner than they are." 

"How much older than the Princess are they allowed to be...?")

Gabriel had considered that -- 

For a *bit* -- 

("No more than five years. Though I'll take up to seven or eight if you find me something *dewy*." 

"McCoy's vivisected all of those, sir." 

"Are you *trying* to make me kill him?"

"I do what I can to make the long nights pass more swiftly, sir,") she'd said, deadpan never cracking for a *moment* -- 

Until she'd *actually* been walking out of his office, and she'd made her long ponytail bounce just *so*. 

It wasn't that he'd *never* considered fucking Landry -- he'd *considered* it every time he had more than a five-minute conversation with the woman. But -- 

And the thought comes, sharp and unbidden and bald and true: She saw me too clearly. Too well. Too *easily*. 

Right now, right here, in another man's life -- 

Gabriel doesn't shudder. He won't. 

He won't let himself *panic*, either. Just -- 

But only Michael was supposed to be able to see him. His Princess *and* his beautifully shining Starfleet *reject*. 

Michael is *always* supposed to see him, and he -- 

He gives himself to *her*, and he shows *her*, and he tells *her* -- except, of course, when he doesn't. 

When it's not *time* to do it. 

When it wouldn't be *useful* to -- and. 

And his Princess had brushed aside -- burned *away* -- every part of Gabriel she couldn't use. Every part of Gabriel which didn't *fit*. 

There were limits to the times when they *could* be soft with each other, when they could be gentle with -- with any *part* of each other. Of *course* there were limits -- they were *Terrans*. 

But Michael was the heir apparent, and there were even more limits on *her*. 

And then, of course, there were the limits she *demanded*, over -- 

Over and above -- 

And if, at times, it felt as though Gabriel was cutting parts of himself off in order to be able to *get* to her -- 

In order to be able to *bleed* on her -- 

Was there anyone else worth his blood?

*Could* there be anyone else worth his sacrifice?

Didn't there have to *be* someone -- 

Please, *someone* -- 

"... sir?" 

Saru, less diffident than *concerned*, and that -- well, that's what he *should* be, as Gabriel's second. It had honestly stopped being odd to have a Kelpien second *long* before having a Tilly who wasn't constantly dripping with blood and gore had. Still -- 

At *this* moment -- 

A Kelpien second means a second who is *acutely* aware of the emotional state of *everyone* within a fifteen to twenty-five meter radius, depending on the age, sensitivity, and *training* of the Kelpien in question. 

This Saru has, Gabriel has noted, kept his own sensitivities in this regard under wraps -- playing his cards close to the vest *exactly* the way a prey-creature *should*, as far as Gabriel is concerned -- but... 

No, that doesn't matter. Ultimately, *Gabriel* is close enough to Saru for the man to know he's fucked up. 

And now the rest of the bridge crew has a fair idea that something is up, too. 

Wonderful. 

Still -- a degree of honesty is, as usual, the best possible policy. 

He gestures in an impression of comfort for all concerned. "All is well, people. I am, in this moment, devoting a significant amount of thought to... vulnerabilities," he says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Every last face on the bridge winces. 

He nods once. "I see you all take my meaning," he says, and stretches a little while seated, fighting back the hallucinatory memory of being shot -- twice -- in just this position. He shakes his head once. "Our vulnerabilities will not stand, people," he says, and focuses on the viewscreen. "I promise you." 

The affirmatives aren't as *strong* as they could be -- they're *all* remembering dying -- but. The affirmatives are there. 

The *foundation* is there, and when the news reaches them all of Mudd's eventual -- and *very* painful -- demise...

Well, that foundation will be stronger. That -- 

The foundation will be *stronger*, and *Michael* will see that, and understand, and Tyler will be relegated to the position of occasional fucktoy, or perhaps even into something she'll want to share *with* him.

Fuck, he wouldn't be averse to dragging him back to the Empire with them. 

Anything you want, Michael. 

Anything you *need*. 

Landry isn't there to snort at him for the prospect of having to get it up for someone like -- like fucking *McCoy* -- 

Landry isn't there, at all. 

But... maybe she will be, when they're all in the Empire.


	15. He definitely has a destiny. A plan? A... destilan.

After shift, in his quarters, Gabriel stares at the immaculate bathtub for -- too long. 

"Computer, begin recording." 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

"I can't -- let you out of my sight, Michael. I can't -- even if I have to watch you die again," he says, and grits his teeth -- 

He stops that. 

He steps into the sonic shower, and adjusts the pressure high enough that it'll make his sinuses vibrate and his balls try *very* hard to retreat into his body. 

He doesn't feel clean after. 

He puts on this universe's Gabriel's cologne the way he *habitually* forgets to do -- 

He gets back in the shower and blasts every trace of it away. 

He still doesn't feel clean, but he *does* feel like himself. It -- 

"It's not that it's a *bad* cologne, Michael," he says, stepping out of the shower and holding up the little vial. "You might even like it. It's very... *woodsy*. Green, and --" He stops. 

He *stops*. 

"Computer, mirror." 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca," the computer says, and the mirror is right there, showing his own *horrified* and *amused* expression. 

Gabriel grins helplessly. "Michael... somehow, before this *very* moment, I had never imagined you finding the *other* Gabriel... attractive." He bares his teeth a little more. "Finding him *sexy*. Finding him *desirable*. Wanting to *fuck* him. I...

"Would you? If we were separated?

"If we couldn't..." Gabriel watches his expression -- crumple. 

Like a *child's*. 

"Michael... I couldn't do anything if that happened. I couldn't -- if you *loved* him." 

He puts the vial away.

He breathes.

He -- 

"Anything you need. Anything you want. Anything you love. It -- they aren't just words, Michael. They -- believe that if you believe nothing else. Please," he says, and sits on the edge of the tub. 

Reaches for the ghost of his Princess, smashed to pieces and -- no. 

No. 

"Computer, put the construct in the tub -- no, against the back of it." 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

Gabriel sighs and watches the construct watch him with curiosity, worry, need, affection, hunger -- 

So many different -- 

"Michael. I didn't love you right away. I didn't." 

She cocks her head to the side and nods. 

"No, I -- you were just -- a girl. I thought -- I mean, it sounded like a shit-assignment. A shit-mission for a disposable asset. Someone you didn't even think of *as* an asset. Philippa didn't even give me the assignment to take over training her daughter herself -- she sent some functionary to do it. Some -- 

"I don't remember his name. He was dead barely two weeks later. I don't even remember *how* he fucked up. Maybe... maybe he didn't fuck up, at all. 

"Maybe Philippa just decided that she didn't want anyone else knowing that she'd picked someone to educate her child and that that assignment had *stuck*. Maybe -- I don't know. 

"I don't know a damned thing," Gabriel says, and grips the side of the tub. 

The construct covers his hand with her own insubstantial one. 

"She -- she was just a girl. And then she wasn't. She was... 

"I think...

"I think you'd take a look -- just one good one -- at the children of the Empire with any kind of rank -- and at least some of the ones without any rank, at all -- and decide that they were all hopelessly broken by the time they were eight or nine or so. Hopelessly... hm. 

"But the Federation doesn't do that, do they. There's always hope -- or at least hospitalization. Right?" 

The construct smiles wryly and inclines her head. 

Gabriel hums. "Well, then, you'd hospitalize the lot of them. Me, too, when I was that age. Philippa. *Michael*, when she was that age. Or -- maybe *not* her. Because, see, Philippa got her hands on Michael when Michael was... four, I think. 

"She didn't know, for certain, and the records were *decidedly* redacted. She didn't know. 

"And Philippa was a lot more *systematic* about raising a child for the Empire than the vast majority of people are, and she was *better* at it than *everyone*. *Everyone*. She..." 

Gabriel shakes his head and doesn't beat at the tub. He -- 

He studies the construct, who isn't smashed. 

Who isn't leaking. 

Who -- 

"*You* would've said Michael was broken completely by the time she was fourteen. That *no* Starfleet hospital would be enough for her. That..." He shakes his head again. "She'd killed... dozens of people with her own hands for the sake of her training. She'd overseen the deaths -- and torture -- of hundreds more -- also for her training. 

"Philippa taught her so, so much of what was *needed* to run the Empire, what was needed to be considered *strong* enough to run the Empire. And then... 

"Then she assigned me to teach her the rest. The finer work. The political work. The diplomacy. Can you..." He frowns and looks to the construct -- 

She's frowning at him *bemusedly*. 

Gabriel coughs a laugh. "I'll have you know that I *am* considered a delicate touch in the Empire, Michael. The velvet glove, mm? All sorts of people dismissed me as being *soft*. As being -- Philippa's gentle little *weakness*." 

The construct's eyes are sparkling with *mirth*. 

Gabriel grins. "You like that...? Good. But still... still... I was young when Philippa sent me to her Michael -- and Michael *was* hers, back then. I thought it was an insult. I thought she was *calling* me soft and weak -- instead of complimenting me for my *unique* *skill-set*. 

"Happily, for my health, I figured out the truth. I...

"Michael was... so. There was so little life in her, back then. So little fire. So little... She was a *machine*. And -- I had to fix that, before I could teach her anything else. I taught her to smile. I taught her to laugh. I... 

"I taught her... subtlety. Velvet. And she reached for it. She reached for me, she. 

"She *taught* me that I could be *useful* for -- for more than one *thing*, Michael," he says, and looks to the construct -- 

\-- who flinches. 

Gabriel winces. "I... it's just. I would understand. That's all I'm trying to say. It would make sense for -- for someone like you, who's been used up and tossed aside by so many *different* people..." Gabriel growls. "If *he* ever came for you, the other Gabriel... if he ever came, and reached out his hand, and taught you that you could be *useful*..."

The construct shudders -- but doesn't look away. 

"I -- would understand," he says, and puts his face in his hands. 

His face isn't wet. 

His hands aren't wet. 

He's not -- 

His communicator chirps. "Burnham to Captain Lorca." Sharp, clear, professional -- 

Gabriel takes a *shuddering* breath -- and pulls on something like control before tapping his own comm. "Lorca here. What can I do for you, Burnham." 

There's a pause -- 

A *lengthy* pause -- 

"I... sir..." And Burnham's -- *Michael's* -- voice is quiet now, low, *soft*. 

Gabriel growls. "Computer, transport Specialist Burnham to my quarters --" 

"*Sir*, you --" 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

"-- must stop *doing* --" 

Gabriel stands up off the side of the tub, crowds Michael against the bathroom wall, and -- rests his forehead against hers. 

She moans and strokes him with both hands, from his waist to his chest --

She *lingers* there, caressing and tugging at his chest hair --

He shivers and kisses her temple, her cheek, the line of her jaw -- 

*She* shivers and sighs. "I -- can't stand watching you speak to her. And not me." 

Gabriel stiffens -- 

*Realizes* that he'd forgotten about the construct in the bathtub --

She kisses the corner of his mouth -- "Why the bathroom, Gabriel? Is there a reason why you bring her here all the time?" 

"I -- computer, end program --" 

"Affirmative, Captain Lorca." 

"Gabriel. Will you tell me?" 

His heart is in his *throat* -- 

He can't get anything *out* -- but. 

But. 

He can think, can't he? 

He can remember Michael's clever little contact lens, and the fact that she had said not one single, solitary word about how *long* she'd been using it, or when she'd been using it, or *how*. 

He -- "Do you read lips...?" 

"Gabriel…" There's a frown in her voice, and it's -- 

He doesn't have to see her eyes to know that it's a disappointed one. He pulls back enough to look anyway, though. To see it. 

To know it. 

"Michael. She didn't die on the _Buran_." 

Michael blinks -- "I... that was the truth." 

Gabriel inclines his head. "I can't -- there's more I *can't* say -- yet. But, for the sake of *this* conversation? We were bathing together, after making love, when the building we were in was strafed to hell and back. I wound up with barely a scratch. She..." He stops. He -- 

And Michael reaches up to cover his mouth, studying him with wide, horrified eyes. 

And a mind which is almost certainly replaying the nightmare of her human parents' death. It. 

Gabriel growls and kisses her fingers, pulls her close, holds her *close* -- 

"Gabriel --" 

"Don't think. Don't think about that." 

"It's only -- I imagined --" 

"I know," he says, and -- loathes himself for the lie he's building between them. The *new* lie on top of all the others -- Michael is supposed to be able to trust him!

Michael is always supposed to be able to *trust* -- 

"Don't think about -- this," he says again, but he can't tell her that it's not important, and he can't tell her that it isn't *worth* thinking about, and -- he's crying again. Just -- 

She moans and *clutches* him -- 

"Michael --" 

"Tell me -- tell me something about her that makes you *smile*, Gabriel!" 

He grunts and stiffens -- 

"*Please*. If you cannot share more of your pain, share your *joy*." 

He shudders and shudders and -- "She. Her laugh." 

"Yes?" 

"She giggled for me, sometimes," Gabriel says, and it feels like there's an *abyss* yawning beneath his feet, but -- 

"Like me?" 

But he can walk them *out* of the bathroom and into the dimness of the bedroom -- 

All the way to the bed -- 

He can strip Michael down, stroke her *skin* -- 

"Gabriel..." 

"She didn't -- not like you," Gabriel says, and he doesn't know why his breathing sounds like that, so -- "She always sounded like a child when she giggled. You only sound like a child *sometimes*." 

"I -- hm." 

"And -- you sound older, even when you *do* sound like --" Gabriel growls, and a tear rolls down his cheek and into his mouth -- 

"How... old...?" 

"Your age. Almost -- almost exactly," Gabriel says, dropping into a crouch to take her shoes, her socks -- "She had no scars," he says, and lifts her feet, one at a time, to kiss them. 

"Oh. None?" 

"Mm. She was -- her mother was -- very vain of her," he says, and tugs down her trousers, and -- can't. He presses his nose against the plain black triangle of Michael's panties -- 

He breathes -- 

He *breathes*, and Michael makes a low, garbled noise -- 

Pushes a hand into his hair -- 

Holds him *close* -- 

Gabriel shivers and moans -- 

"She wasn't -- Starfleet." 

Gabriel coughs a laugh -- and tugs himself back enough to meet Michael's gaze with a smile. "Not in the slightest." 

"You... enjoyed that about her." 

And that... 

"No...?" And that eyebrow is reaching for the stars again, but... 

Gabriel licks his lips and shakes his head. "I enjoyed -- *loved* -- her. All of her, *nearly* from the beginning. And -- when we were together, Starfleet didn't exist." 

"Until you had to leave once more?" 

Gabriel shudders again -- "Until... then," he says, and squeezes his eyes shut. "I never wanted to leave. I never wanted to live without her --" And then he's grunting in pain -- 

His *eyes* are watering -- 

Michael is yanking his hair hard enough that *multiple* strands are being yanked *free* -- 

"Do you *truly* love me, Gabriel." And -- her eyes might as well be chips of *obsidian*. They -- 

"*Yes* --" 

"Then you will not speak of *that* again," she says, and -- 

And Gabriel realizes that she's shaking -- 

That the fist gripping him by the hair is all but *trembling* -- 

That. "I never want to frighten you, Michael." 

She cocks her head to the side. "I am not certain that that is the truth, Gabriel." 

He winces -- "I --" 

"Make me a promise. Make me *this* promise." 

"I won't *leave* you! I won't -- fuck, I won't fucking *kill* myself!"

She flares her nostrils and studies him -- 

Studies him *hard* -- 

"Because... you have found hope?" 

"Because I've found *you*," he says, and he needs her, he *needs* her, needs her *fire* -- "There is nothing in this universe that'll make me let you go --" 

"Gabriel --" 

"-- and if I have to find you in every *other* universe, too? I *will*." 

She grunts again -- 

Blinks at him -- 

And then smiles... softly. Warmly. *Wonderingly*. "I..." 

Gabriel shivers -- "What is it? What are you thinking?" 

"It's..." She shakes her head. "I can see it. I can *see* you attempting to bend time and space for the sake of your *romantic* relationships." 

Well, that's a positive *step*... Gabriel hums and smiles, standing and cupping her still-panty-clad hips. "I have no idea what other reason a person could possibly have for doing it." 

"Oh, yes, why *indeed*," she says, and *snorts*, stepping back and stripping out of her upper layers -- 

"Mm. You are..." Gabriel licks his lips and tugs her bra off her fingertips, giving it a good sniff. 

She gives him that covetous look -- "I think..." 

"Mm...?" 

"I think that I would be... irritated if you were to replace me with an alternate universe version of myself." 

Well, my Princess would've given us both to the vivisectionist before *eating* us, so -- "Irritated...?"

She gives him a -- look. 

"Michael?" 

"Something about that thought reminded you of her. Your love." 

Gabriel winces. "I -- it's nothing -- no, I won't do that," he says, and rests Michael's bra on a chair. "I *was* thinking of her, and of how... I don't know if I know how to say this. I. Give me..." 

"I will wait for you, Gabriel. I will always wait for *this*," she says, and sits on his bed, long legs crossed at the knee. 

Gabriel sighs, and sits beside her. "You smell... a little like her, you know." 

She blinks. "That..." 

He smiles ruefully, and gestures. "You both use -- used -- replicated coconut oil for your hair." 

She nods thoughtfully. "She was human. And... dark?" 

"Yes, I." Gabriel swallows. "I've always been attracted to that -- with women. It wasn't just the two of you." 

"And other genders?" 

He lets his smile turn wry. "I'd say... more variety. In a much, much smaller sample." 

Michael *obviously* files that away for later consideration -- and then looks at him expectantly. 

He nods -- 

And breathes -- 

"It took time, but eventually she knew she was -- first. The only one who mattered. The only one who could get anything out of me, at any time, for any *reason* -- or none at all." 

"Are you certain of this?" 

"I am. We *had* the time, and I -- well, she let me prove myself. I managed to do it," he says, and -- he can't stop himself from looking to her. 

From *asking* her. 

From -- 

"I -- am not certain how to go about formulating that sort of test, Gabriel." 

"I --" 

"I am not certain I want to be the sort of *person* who formulates that sort of test," she says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Gabriel takes a breath -- "All right. I -- she was that sort of person. She had to be. She -- or. I don't know. Maybe she could've been someone else, in another life," he says, and swallows -- 

And swallows -- 

"She needed me to prove myself. *I* needed me to prove myself for her. I needed -- to be the person she could believe in." 

"The *one* person?" 

"There weren't very many people we could --" But. That's not here. That's not now. He growls and shakes his head. "I know it's fucked up. I know it's hard to imagine. I know --" 

She cups his bare thigh and squeezes. "Perhaps... she had difficulty making friends?" 

"Fuck -- so *much*. And I -- I could help with that. I could *connect* her with people who would understand her a little better, whom she could have *conversations* with --" 

"Like you did with me and Tilly?" 

Gabriel's teeth click shut, and his cheeks *burn*. 

"And... a part of me has been wondering if you brought Tyler back to the ship *for* me." 

"I." 

She looks at him evenly. *Patiently*. 

Gabriel takes a breath. 

Michael continues to look at him. 

And -- honesty. "All right, two things." 

Eyebrow. 

"One, I absolutely gave you to Tilly -- and vice versa -- because I knew she would be the *first* person on this ship to treat *you* like a person, as opposed to a walking crime." 

"You had no idea --" 

"That you were worth that kind of treatment? Mm. No, I did *not*, Michael. But I had eyes on you the *entire* time."

"Because... you knew I could be a valuable asset," she says, and she's testing the *shape* of the words, prodding at them because she knows full well there's something *wrong*.

He can't let that stand. "I won't deny an attraction, even back then." 

"Sir --" 

"Don't." 

"*Gabriel*, then. You didn't *know* me!" 

"Michael, let's be honest here," he says, and covers the hand she has on his thigh -- 

Squeezes it gently -- 

Lifts it to his mouth and nips her fingers -- just a little. 

"Gabriel..." 

"We don't know each other now," he says, and -- it hurts. 

"You -- did not want to say that." 

"No. I didn't." 

"You did not want to *admit* that --" 

"Nothing that could take you away from me, Michael. Nothing that could take you from my *side* --" 

"But you just *said* --" 

"I know," he says, and kisses her palm -- "enough." 

She makes a soft sound. 

He nods. "And I know you'll give me more." 

She looks at him for long moments. 

She frowns -- 

She closes her *eyes* -- 

"Michael --" 

"Make me -- another promise." 

"Anything --" 

"Do not make me *drag* honesty from you anymore, Gabriel," she says, and her expression is hard. "Do not --" She shakes her head once. "I have had my fill of this with *Sarek*." 

Gabriel narrows his eyes. "Did he --" 

She holds up her free hand, just that fast. "It is my place to... deal with that. Not yours." 

"Michael --" 

"The answer is no." 

("She is *my* mother, Gabriel -- not yours.") 

Gabriel winces and can't stop himself from turning away. 

"Oh --" 

"In the interest of not making you drag truth out of me..." He breathes more and -- copes. "*She* had an *extremely* fraught relationship with her mother that I was only invited to help with... tangentially." 

Michael inhales. "I... see. I apologize for --" 

"You have nothing to apologize for, Michael. It -- it isn't even remotely the same, for all that it *echoes* the same." 

Another studying look -- 

Gabriel smiles at her ruefully. "Sarek is a hard-ass, but I don't *think* he ever truly... abused you. I think I know you well enough to know that," he says, and lets the question *under* his voice be as bald and needy as it is.

Her return smile is crooked. "You do," she says, and squeezes his hand. "I promise." 

He nods and kisses her knuckles, one at a time, before bringing their hands back down between them. "So... what else can I tell you?"

She hums. "Everything." 

"I like the sound of --" 

"What... did you dose Mudd with," she says, and doesn't look at him -- 

And doesn't *look* at him -- 

And. 

"How sure are you that you want me to answer *that* question, Michael?" 

She licks her lips -- and doesn't look at him. "I wonder... what you remember. Of the time-loop." 

"Dying. Dozens of times. Some more painfully than -- Mudd had a *particular* grudge against me. What do *you*..." But. 

She's looking at him with horror in her eyes. 

With horrified *realization*. It... "Michael?" 

"I thought... I thought, at first, that only Paul remembered. I thought -- but there was something in your *eyes* --"

"We *all* remember --" 

"Not all of it, Gabriel. I -- I think you remember each individual death. I -- you do, don't you." 

"Of course I do. I would forget at the beginning of every loop, and then remember just in time to be *pissed* that I couldn't *do* anything --" 

"Gabriel..." And she shakes her head and squeezes his hand hard. 

He frowns. "What are you saying?" 

"You are the only one, Gabriel -- other than Paul --" 

"You call him Paul now -- wait, what do you *mean*? *Everyone* remembers -- *you* remember --" 

"We -- all of us -- remember..." She shakes her head again. "There are... wisps of things. *Impressions*. The *sense* that certain moments or conversations had happened already, or that I *should* be more intimate with this person, or --" 

"With Tyler?"

She blinks and *looks* at him -- 

Licks her lips *slowly*. 

"You are jealous." 

"I --" He won't lie. "Yes." 

"We will discuss this. But -- the matter of what you remember is more important, Gabriel." 

He frowns. "Why should it matter?" 

She stares at him like he'd grown another head and started spewing *non*-arousing obscenities with it. 

"Michael --" 

"Gabriel. Do you... no. You know *precisely* what you did when you poisoned Mudd. When you *condemned* him to *die* without anything resembling a *trial* --" 

"Yes, I *do*, Michael: I guaranteed that he'd never be *back*. That he'd never find his way onto *any* of Starfleet's ships again. That he'd never --" He snarls and -- cups her face with his free hand. 

Just cups it. 

"Think, for a moment, about what else I might remember Mudd doing, Michael." 

"I -- I know he destroyed the ship countless times --" 

"And murdered everyone *on* it. Usually -- *usually* -- I was long dead by then --" 

"Don't --" 

"*But*, there was that last gambit of *yours* to consider, mm?" 

"Oh." 

"*Paul* told you what you did, didn't he? It would be *like* him." 

"I -- Gabriel --" 

"I watched you die in *pain*, Michael! *Again*!" 

"What -- I --" 

He doesn't snarl. He doesn't -- 

He kisses her temple, and then breathes there. 

Takes in her warm, living -- "Listen to me." 

"Gabriel..." 

"Please." 

"I am listening." 

Gabriel smiles helplessly. "Provisionally...?" 

Her laughter is a breath -- 

A kiss -- 

A *chance*. 

"I love you so -- but listen. He was never going to stand trial. The only crime he *could* have been charged with was being a stowaway." 

"Tampering with Starfleet computer systems --" 

"Michael." 

She makes a low, hurt sound --

She shivers. For -- 

For a long time. 

He squeezes her hand, strokes her through the shivers with his other hand -- 

Breathes her *in* -- 

He'll always take *care* of her -- 

"I don't. I don't want..." She sounds -- sick. 

But Gabriel knows how to fix that. "You don't want to be the person they said you were." 

"I --" 

"You don't want to be the worthless, retrograde, *unfit* --" 

"Don't --" 

He pulls back and cups her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You're Michael Andreas Burnham. No one else." 

"I..." 

"You're your parents' daughter -- the daughter of *all* of your parents." 

"I'm not -- I --" 

"Would Amanda take that? Mm? Would *Sarek*?" 

She stiffens, eyes widening -- 

Gabriel nods. "You're the *human* who outsmarted all the *Vulcans* at their own games, in their own academies, on their own *planet*." 

"My -- I --" 

"You're the *officer* who was damned well on track to be the youngest *Captain* to ever have a starship of their own --" 

"No --" 

"*Yes*, Michael," he says -- *growls*. "You *are* that woman. You're that woman whenever you *want* to be her, because you can and *will* embody everything Starfleet *dreams* of being on its *best* fucking day -- and you'll do it in your *sleep*," he says, and wets his lips. "When and *if* you want to do it." 

She shivers more -- 

More -- 

Stops. "What does that mean." 

"It means that you can pick *that* up," he says, and points to where her tunic -- with her 'temporary' communicator -- is lying on the floor, "whenever you'd *like*. It means that the day will come -- very, very soon -- when any number of individuals who outrank *me* will be doing their best to pretend that they aren't *begging* you to do just that --" 

"I --" 

"Shh. Michael. We're *going* to win this war. We? Are *already* winning it. *We* are -- not the rest of Starfleet. *Us*. *This* ship -- because. Of. You.

"And I'd like to think you know me well enough to know that I've been making damned sure that all those prissy little admirals *know* it," he says, and holds her gaze. 

*Holds* it, because it's true -- 

Because he'd fucking *had* to -- 

And he's not finished. "You can pick this up whenever you'd *like*, Michael. But..." And he raises an eyebrow. 

"I don't... have to." 

He inclines his head. "There's life -- *many* lives -- away from Starfleet --" 

"With all due respect, *sir*, how would you know?" 

Gabriel lets himself choke on the laugh precisely as much as he needs to. "Well. I suppose I *was* pontificating without anything resembling permission," he says, letting himself drawl a little -- 

She *looks* at him. 

"Mm. Michael. I'm not going to *be* here forever," he says, and lets everything stay in his eyes. *Everything*. 

"Oh." 

"It is my dearest and *most* fervent hope to take you with me." 

"I -- where?" 

"Home. For a start," he says, and smiles ruefully. "I…" He stops, and -- realizes.

"Gabriel?"

He doesn't want to take her to the _Charon_. 

He doesn't -- 

It's supposed to be his *destiny* -- but.

"Gabriel, are you..." 

But it wasn't ever his purpose. Was it. He breathes, and smiles just a little bit more. "I *haven't* gotten to spend all that much time planetside in the past twenty years. I haven't given myself that time. 

"I haven't given *anyone* that time --" 

"Not even -- her," she says. It's not a question. 

He nods. "We made mistakes. Wasted time," he says, and lets that be bald, too. 

She licks her lips and nods back. "You do not -- waste time. Anymore."

"I do my best to avoid it... but it still happens sometimes. I don't always know myself well enough to predict my worst behavior," he says, and smiles wryly. 

She smiles with him -- and then very obviously comes to a decision. 

"Michael...?" 

"I would like... to lie with you. To -- hold you and be held." 

Gabriel hums. "I would enjoy that a *great* deal," he says, standing with her and turning back the sheets -- 

She finally skins off her panties -- 

And then they're crawling onto the bed and curling against each other, *into* each other -- 

Warm -- 

So *warm* -- 

"Why are you jealous of Ash?" 

"You call him -- I." 

She looks at him evenly -- 

Braids their legs together that much tighter -- 

Looks at him *harder* -- 

Gabriel sighs. "Does it help, at all, to know that I'd be entirely onboard with you fucking him? Or -- basically anyone else?"

She blinks -- 

A lot -- 

Gabriel takes the opportunity to pet her, and nuzzle her -- 

*Enjoy* the feel of all that sleek skin against his still-mostly-soft cock -- 

Except that she *grips* his cock -- 

Gives it a *studying* stroke that works Gabriel's foreskin *all* around -- 

It -- 

"Michael --" 

"You don't want me to fall in love with him." 

"I -- is that so strange?" 

She squeezes his cock *viciously* -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

"He needs me." 

"Of course --" 

"He *throws* himself at me --" 

"I --" 

"He tries and *fails* to avoid making -- making *declarations* --" 

Gabriel *growls* -- 

"*Gabriel*," she says -- and *she's* growling -- 

"I'm listening -- fuck -- especially since you're doing *that* to my cock. Michael --" 

She squeezes *harder* -- 

"*Michael* --" 

"Gabriel. *You* told me to spend as much time as possible around people. Like. *You*." 

Gabriel stops. And -- 

He tries. 

He -- "All right, I would like to state, for the record, that I *also* said that I would be shooting myself in the *cock* by telling you that." 

She gives him a *mean* look -- and an even meaner stroke. 

"Ah, *fuck*, Michael -- you -- does this mean you're pissed at me or *not*?" 

"I don't *know*!" 

"Then let me *help* you," he says, and *shoves* into her fist -- 

"Nn --" 

"Let me *fuck* you, mm?" And he shoves in again -- 

Again -- 

"Let me fuck you -- just as hard as we *like*," he says, and -- 

And her hand is gone, just like that. It -- 

"Michael --" 

"No, I -- I *need*," she says, and pushes and *moves* him until he's on his back, until she can straddle him, rise up -- 

"Oh, Michael, I -- do you want to do it? Mm? Or should I?"

She shudders once, all over, reaching between her legs for a moment -- *just* a moment -- before tugging wet, *shining* fingers free. She -- 

"Mouth. I -- in my *mouth*, Michael --" 

She whines and paints his *face* with it, instead -- and then shoves her fingers in her *own* mouth before gripping his *jerking* cock again -- 

Before guiding him up -- 

Guiding him *in*, and Gabriel is growling for it, stroking her thighs restlessly, *roughly* -- 

Stroking up to her hips and squeezing hard, *hard* -- 

"*Please*!" 

And he doesn't know -- but their eyes meet and he does, he knows, he knows *every*-fucking-thing. He grips those hips tight and pulls her down while he thrusts *up* -- and they're screaming together, howling together, and he pushes her up -- 

"No -- n-no --" 

"*Yes*," he says, and pulls her *down* again -- 

"*Gabriel* --" 

"I'll make you *mine*," he says, and pushes her up -- 

"Ah --" 

Holds her *up* -- 

"Don't --" 

He *yanks* her down and grinds up -- up and up and up and she's groaning, whimpering -- 

Clawing *fire* into his chest -- 

Raking over his nipples and making Gabriel gasp and lose his rhythm, buck -- 

"Gabriel, *yes*!" 

"Is this what you wanted, Michael? Is this -- fuck, you're gonna *get* it," he says, and fucks her hard, fast, *dirty* -- 

Holds her *still* for it -- 

Holds her *down* on him as he fucks up and in and up and *in*, and her eyes are wide and wondering -- 

Her eyes are full and *open* for him, for *him* -- 

"I *love* you!" 

"Gabriel --" 

"I need you -- I need -- ah, *fuck*, *Michael*," he says, and he's rolling them, pinning her down on her back, gripping her by her hair and one tit -- lest she think he *forgot* again -- "Michael, can you *take* this." 

"Please!" 

And it feels like his *spine* is igniting, feels like he's nothing but some kind of ancient bit of combustion machinery, rolling iron polluting every bit of sky he touches and *taking*, always *taking* -- 

But Michael is arching beneath him, tossing her head and gasping out cry after *cry*. 

She's clenching around him again and *again* -- 

She's trying to lock her legs around his waist, but her *thighs* are trembling too much, and she's so -- 

He's so -- 

He fucks her *harder*, shocking a sob out of *himself* -- and just that fast she's looking at him, into him, *through* him. 

She sees him -- 

She *sees* him, and there's nothing better, there can never be anything *better*. 

He believes that right up until she cups his face -- 

Right up until she strokes back to his ears and yanks him down into a kiss, a clutch, a full-body caress that somehow isn't lessened or *cheapened* by the jaggedly rhythmic crash of their bodies, by -- 

They're fucking each other *blind*, but -- 

But she's making love to him -- 

She's *letting* him make love to *her*, and Gabriel is sobbing again, shaking like he's ill, getting even *harder* -- 

She's gasping into his mouth, nuzzling him, licking his *tears* away -- 

He can't -- 

"Gabriel --" 

He *can't* -- 

"Gabriel, please *come* for me!" 

And there's exactly one way to respond to that, one way to *exist* for that, one -- 

And he's biting her again, biting her all over her *face* even as he sobs, even as he fucks in-in-*in*, even as he shoots *off*, again and *again* -- 

He's blind with it, *desperate* -- 

He doesn't know what *noises* he's making -- 

He bites her *mouth* when she tries to kiss him again -- 

She bucks *hard*, clenching tight enough to make him *choke* on his sobs -- 

And then he's collapsing on his hands, panting and shuddering and -- there's blood on his mouth. 

*In* his mouth. 

She's panting, too. 

She's *grinning* up at him with her red, swollen lips and -- 

And Gabriel is in love. "I need. To make you come." 

She licks her lips. Slowly. "How." 

"You --" 

"No. *You* choose," she says, and shifts, just a little, beneath him. Getting more comfortable. 

Gabriel... is absolutely still *gripping* her tit -- 

And her *hair* -- 

He licks *his* lips -- "I don't... want to stop holding you. Touching you." 

"Then do not --" 

"Let me get you off with my hands." 

She raises an eyebrow for a moment -- and then spreads her legs wide. "Please."


	16. I'm sure these two crazy kids will... uh... they will... well, they'll certainly do something with themselves.

There are any number of parts of Gabriel which have idiotic things to say in this moment, so he sets about shutting each and every one of them *up* before he *moves* -- 

"What are you thinking?" 

"A part of me can't stop wondering what you were doing with Tyler at that party." 

She blinks at him *bemusedly*. 

He smiles ruefully. "I was actually in the process of strangling that part of me when you asked. I'll get right back to it --" 

"I can't answer that question, Gabriel --" 

"I --" 

"I do not know -- though *Paul* does, and I will ask him." 

Gabriel blinks at her... a lot. 

"What I *do* know is that, along with -- eventually -- coming up with a plan to retake the ship, Ash and I were doing or saying *something* -- or many things -- which have led to a vaguely defined but *present* sense of comfort with him. This comfort has joined with my baseline physical and emotional attraction to him, and has created, within me, a desire for more. I have not yet discerned what 'more' might mean." 

Gabriel -- breathes. 

She raises an eyebrow. "I *have* discerned that I am -- currently -- in a relationship with another man entirely, and that that relationship certainly seems to be a monogamous one. Unless, of course, it is *not* --" 

"I." 

She looks at him. 

He licks his lips. "Can we go back to me making you come screaming?"

She strokes a line along his cheek. "I believe... that she was not faithful to you. At least not all the time." 

Gabriel winces. "We didn't -- it wasn't that sort of relationship. We -- not for us." 

"Gabriel... I believe you would be lying to me unforgivably if you said it wasn't that sort of relationship for *you*." 

Gabriel feels the blood drain from his *face* --

"Oh --" And she's gripping him, pulling him down again, holding him *to* her again -- 

Urging him to bury his face against her throat -- 

Urging him to *clutch* -- 

He's not crying this time, though. He's not -- 

Michael sees him. 

Michael always has to -- 

And that means he's done the right thing. 

Means he's done his *job*. 

Michael sees him and knows him and still wants to *touch* him, and -- 

And he can kiss her long throat -- 

Kiss it just -- over and over. Kiss it and suck, lick -- 

"Gabriel..." 

"Please let me --" 

"I do not think I should let you hide from your grief in me." 

Gabriel grunts -- and doesn't think about the fact that he'd just flinched, doesn't think about the fact that he's broken, *unfit* -- 

Landry would walk away from him -- 

His Princess would -- 

Would -- 

But. 

Michael is stroking him, and petting him -- 

Brushing the pads of her thumbs along his hairline -- 

Dragging them back to his temples and rubbing hard, firm circles, and -- 

"I -- that feels..." 

"Do you like it, Gabriel?"

He takes a shuddering breath and kisses her again. Her shoulder this time, and -- lightly. "I love it. I -- I love it." 

"I'm glad. I... hm." And she laughs quietly. 

He kisses her again. "Share the joke...?" 

"I do not think it would surprise you to know that I was a... tense child." 

Gabriel *coughs* a laugh -- "Ah..." 

She hums. "Indeed. My mothers -- both of them -- would massage me, from time to time." 

"Oh --" 

"I don't want to be your mother." 

"I'm... hm. I'm glad?" 

She snorts and smacks the back of his head. Gently. 

He lets her feel his smile against her collarbone. "I love you... and I love the way you comfort me." 

"Yes?" And -- there's more to that question than curiosity. There's...

"Does that surprise you...?" Gabriel pushes up on one hand enough that he can meet her eyes. 

For a moment, that gorgeously covetous look is back in her eyes -- 

She's looking his *shoulders* over -- but. 

She's serious again in an instant, and focused on his eyes. 

"I'm listening, Michael," he says, and uses the hand he's not bracing himself on to trace her features. 

"I... you know precisely how little experience I have with... human-standard socialization." 

Gabriel hums. "Yes. And I think you do a damned good job of compensating for it." 

She *looks* at him for that -- 

"No bullshit, Michael -- you truly do. You are... exceptional." 

She flushes under her skin. "I do not think --" She shakes her head. "Philippa used to... push me. Chide me. Scold me *gently* for how unsocialized I was. Am." 

Gabriel stops -- 

*Stops* -- 

*Regroups* -- 

"This surprises you." 

"I..." 

"Gabriel." 

Gabriel smiles ruefully. "All right, yes, it does. I think..." He shakes his head. "She loved you more than anyone else in this universe." 

Michael squeezes her eyes shut --

"Shh, no, Michael. I've seen the files -- all of them. The two of you were on the same page at the end. You were working together for the same *goals*, just the way you always should have been." 

"She --" 

"She was killed, yes. But *you* didn't do it, Michael. The plan was sound -- as a response to the situation you were faced with. As a Starfleet officer, I have a bone to pick with Philippa for joining an away mission when she, as the *Captain*, should have been coordinating the battle effort from onboard the _Shenzhou_ , but -- the plan was sound. 

"You -- and she -- were almost certainly the two most qualified people *for* that particular mission, at that particular --" 

"I shouldn't have *gotten* her into that *position*!" 

"And there it is," Gabriel says, and sighs, and sits *up* -- and pulls Michael with him. 

"Please --" 

"Shh, come to me." 

"Gabriel --" 

"Come to me. Always come to me." 

She moans and obeys, curling into his arms and shuddering -- 

*Clutching* him and shuddering *more* -- 

"You will not convince me that I did the right thing, Gabriel." 

"I won't try. I promise." 

She nods slowly, cheek dragging against his chest. 

"Try this on: You did what you *had* to do, given the information you -- *you* -- had." 

"I --" 

"*All* the information you had, from every point in your *life*." 

She inhales sharply -- and stops.

"Mm. I know what you want to say to that, Michael." 

"Do you?"

"I do: We're supposed to be bigger than that. *Greater* than that. We're supposed to be *Starfleet*, right down to where we're *made*. We're supposed to *bleed* Starfleet -- even when we're stabbed in the *heart*." 

"*Yes*!" 

"I submit to you, Michael, that even *Starfleet* doesn't *always* bleed Starfleet." 

"I -- no." 

"Yes," Gabriel says, quiet and firm. "I'll show you the files whenever you'd like." 

She stiffens -- but only for a moment. "How... did you. Get them." It's not really a question. 

He kisses her hairline. "I think you know the answer to that question." 

She shudders. "What made you *look*, Gabriel?" And she looks to *him* with wide eyes, staring and *frightened* eyes -- 

Gabriel frowns. "Michael... I needed to know. For my *own* curiosity. My own *doubts*." And why would Gabriel Lorca have... Oh, yes. He bares his teeth. "There are remarkably few reasons why someone like *me* would've been given a command after what happened with the _Buran_ , Michael. I had... questions." 

She blinks rapidly -- and blushes. 

Gabriel nods once. "I promise that my *entire* existence isn't about you." 

Michael almost *gurgles* a laugh -- 

Gabriel grins. "Liked that, did you? I could probably *calculate* how much of my existence is about you from moment to moment, if you'd like --" 

"You -- you *sleep* with her! The *construct*!"

Gabriel smiles ruefully. "Only when you're not there. But -- does it feel like I'm cheating on you?" He studies her -- 

He studies her *eyes* -- 

"I promise --" 

"I -- don't know," Michael says, and frowns, at least somewhat at herself. 

"That's fair --" 

"I want -- I want to be in a relationship with you." 

"You're in luck --" 

"I want to be in as *much* of a relationship with you as *she* is!" 

Gabriel *inhales* -- "I was beaten when I was a child. I -- extensively." 

Michael blinks at him. "You... Gabriel?" 

"That's one of the things -- I said to the construct." 

"Oh. *Oh* -- *please*. And how was your abuse not *stopped*?" 

How *indeed*. Gabriel Lorca was raised in the *heart* of the warm, fuzzy beast... "Well..." Gabriel smiles wryly. "It helps that I was healed after every beating. *Perfectly* healed." That's even true. You don't want to damage a potential asset -- 

"But your *psyche* --" 

"Not the best, to be honest. Not... but..." Gabriel squeezes his eyes shut and clutches Michael tightly -- 

*Tightly* -- 

"I need... to tell you more about this." 

She shivers. "But. Not now?" 

"No. *Right* now. But -- there's something... I don't know that you will..." Gabriel growls.

"You don't know that I will *what* --" 

"I don't know that you'll -- it's just. Michael, my *actual* Starfleet psych profiles -- the earliest ones anyway -- aren't as squeaky clean as the ones you've seen. The ones you've seen were *edited* to be more in line with the later ones." 

She tugs herself back and looks at him. "And... the later ones were taken after you had learned to give better answers. *This* is what you're saying." 

"Yes, Michael." Certainly, the *last* -- and only -- profile *he'd* given Starfleet had been a beautiful fiction, but -- he's lying too much.

He's lying to Michael again and again and -- 

He was never *supposed* to -- but.

This particular lie -- is in service to a greater truth. He has to. He *has* to. 

But she's frowning at him. "There is... Gabriel, I feel there are things you are not saying to me." 

"There are *countless* things I haven't said to you, yet, Michael. And -- I want to start. I'm trying -- I'm trying to start." 

She nods slowly, reaching up to touch his face like a Vulcan looking to form a mind-meld before simply cupping his cheeks. "Who -- who hurt you. When you were young." 

"Teachers. Trainers --" 

"Not -- your parents?" 

Gabriel shakes his head. "I was raised by my grandmothers -- three of them. They were wonderful to me. Took care of me. Taught me any *number* of things about the world, the worlds *beyond* the world -- people." He grins. "Taught me about good food, too." 

Michael hums. "I can see that. But... your teachers?" 

"I always intended to enter the military -- one way or another. I wanted to be the best at... everything. *Everything*. That was all well and good with languages, history, tactics, programming, et cetera. But..." He lets his smile turn wry. "I was slower and clumsier than a lot of my peers at hand-to-hand." 

She blinks a *lot* -- 

"That is an *immensely* gratifying response, by the by --" 

"I -- Gabriel, are you saying *those* teachers hurt you?" 

He already knows the near-religious heights these Starfleet types can take their relationships with this teacher, or that one, or *all* of the *above* -- so. He cups her hips and squeezes. "I didn't choose Starfleet for that education, Michael. Not until I had... rather a lot more than *just* the basics down." 

She winces. "They -- hurt you." 

"And, to greater or lesser degrees, everyone else in their classes." 

"They taught you -- that this was *normal*." 

He tilts his head to the side and smiles. "In truth? I didn't need that lesson from *them*." 

"Oh -- Gabriel..." 

"I knew -- from any number of sources, including my grandmothers -- that even in exquisitely-run mechanisms, even in exquisitely-run mechanisms with any number of *failsafes*, there will be... blind spots. Dark areas. Cracks through which the smallest of us can fall. I was small and I chose to walk in the dark... and so I fell." 

Michael growls -- "I do not accept the fatalism of that statement." 

Gabriel hums. "Nor do I -- ultimately," he says, and licks her temple -- 

"Gabriel --" 

"I didn't stay in the dark, Michael -- and I damned well didn't stay *small*." 

"Oh." 

"I learned, with time, the differences between abuse and pedagogy..." And then he'd given that to his Princess. 

At least, he *thinks* he -- 

Fuck. 

*Fuck* -- 

But Michael is kissing his eyelids -- 

His cheeks -- 

His mouth and back to his eyelids, again -- 

Michael is *thanking* him, over and over, low and *fervent* -- 

Michael is promising to remember, to remember *everything* -- 

She's pushing him down -- 

Holding him *down*, and -- 

"-- can I do? What would be *best*, Gabriel?" Her voice is *loud*, *carrying* -- 

And that lets Gabriel realize that *he's* making too much noise with all his crying, all his *fucking* *leaking* -- 

He takes a shuddering breath -- 

Another -- 

His sinuses are *blocked* -- 

But he doesn't want to breathe anything that isn't her, anyway. Not now. Not -- 

Not now. He smiles up at her ruefully and gestures a come-on. 

"Gabriel?" 

He nods and does it again. 

"But -- you are not *hard*," she says, and blushes exactly like she'd said something *wrong*. 

Gabriel's smile sits a lot stronger on his face -- and he flares his nostrils, mostly for effect. "You're wet, though. *Nice* and wet -- with both of us." 

She grunts -- 

"You love it when I'm honest..." 

"*Yes* -- I --" 

"C'mon up here, Michael. Come sit on my *face*." 

Her expression is... stunned. Staggered and hungry and --

Gabriel's cock starts to thicken and lift, *right* on cue -- 

She reaches for it -- 

"No, Michael. That's not yours right now." 

"Oh -- *fuck* --" 

Gabriel shows his teeth. "*Move*, Michael. Get that beautiful and *dripping* cunt on my face right --" 

And she's moving -- 

She's *moaning* and moving, fast and almost *graceless* -- 

Her moans are as ragged as a *fuck* -- 

But he's got her, he's got her by the hip and one ass-cheek -- 

"Please, Gabriel, *please* --" 

"*Yes*," he says, and *hauls* her down *as* he takes a breath -- 

Hears her scrabbling at the headboard with her short nails -- 

Hears her *sob* -- 

His cock *jerks* -- 

He sucks at her clit almost *reflexively* -- 

She bucks against his *face* -- 

He gasps as she drips all over him, just all *over* him, and he has to lick, has to take, has to *taste* -- 

He holds her tighter, digs his fingers in, *bruises* her as he sucks and suckles, does his best to lap to either *side* of her clit -- 

"Gabriel!" 

She's not making it easy. She's grinding and bucking, shaking and *thrusting* against his face, trying to *get* what she needs, *using* him -- 

He wants her to *use* him, he wants -- but. 

He doesn't want that. 

He doesn't... 

He *growls* into her cunt -- 

"Gabriel, *yes*, *yes*," she says, and she's shaking, shuddering -- "Please! Please do everything!" 

He kisses her, he kisses the opening of her cunt over and over -- 

"*Fuck* -- *oh* -- *please*!" 

"*Love* you," and that was slurred, breathless, incomprehensible -- 

She can't know -- 

She doesn't *know* -- 

"Gabriel, I -- I never --" She sobs and *bounces* on him -- 

He bucks and *grips* her -- 

Sucks *hard* -- 

She screams and *trembles* --

Obviously struggles to *still* herself and no -- 

*No* -- 

He *growls* into her cunt, does his best to pull her in harder, to *drown* himself in her, make her feel, make her *feel* -- 

She whimpers *loudly* and cups the top of his head -- 

Grips and *claws* at his *scalp* -- 

He grunts and growls and bucks more, again -- 

Again and -- 

He shoves his tongue *in* -- 

"*Gabriel*!" 

He always wants her to shout his *name*, *his* name -- 

No one else's, no one -- 

But -- 

"Please -- please never *stop*!" 

He'll never let her go, he'll never let her *down* -- 

And now she's sobbing on every breath, shaking and -- 

She's all but *quaking* over him, above him, *around* -- 

Gabriel can't breathe -- 

Can't think and can't -- but he can fuck her with his tongue, suck her and *fuck* her, have her, make love -- 

Grip her hip and hold her steady even as he wriggles the fingers of his other hand down and down into her cleft -- 

She chokes on a sob -- 

He presses on her tight little *hole* -- 

"*Yes* -- I -- I -- *yours* --" 

His eyes fly open wide, sightless in the *dark* even as he burns -- 

*Flares* with wild pleasure, wild need, wild -- 

*Completion* as her hand scrabbles rough and clumsy -- she's got him, she's got him by the cock -- 

He pushes a finger *deep* into her ass -- 

They scream -- 

They *scream*, and Gabriel doesn't have any air left, not a prayer, not a *whisper*, but he won't stop kissing, won't stop *fucking*, finger and tongue and finger, in and in, out and *in* -- 

She screams again -- 

*Again* -- 

And it's wet enough all *over* Gabriel's face that he almost can't tell that she's coming, but she's clenching so violently, so perfectly, so *randomly* -- 

Clenching so hard around his tongue *and* his finger -- 

Her hand is *shuddering* on his cock -- 

He fucks it hard, fucks it -- 

And the blackness takes everything, warm and complete and -- 

He *whoops* in a breath that doesn't smell *completely* like her -- 

He can't -- 

He still can't *see* -- 

"Gabriel..." 

But then he remembers that he can *open* his eyes -- and see her there, right there, between his legs and *looking* at him from over his aching cock. Just -- 

Just... 

"Michael..." 

"Do you want my mouth? Or my cunt. Or...?" 

The images for that -- 

The images of being *teased* by Michael until he can't do anything but take her, *hurt* her -- 

They belong in a different universe.

They -- 

They belong, maybe, to a man who likes to be used by the woman he loves. They -- 

He shudders and -- 

"Gabriel... do you need --" 

"I need you. I need *you*," he says, and he knows that he's shaking, knows that he's breaking down *again*, that...

She looks at him steadily for a long moment -- and then nods. "I believe you. And I believe you know precisely how much that makes me... Gabriel, I need *you*," she says, and takes him in -- 

Takes him into her *mouth* -- 

Sucks him and mouths him and *hums* -- 

Hums like she's never known the taste, the texture, the *sensation*, or -- 

But then she starts *working* herself on his cock, two fingers *loosely* around the base and mouth so -- 

So -- 

Gabriel hears himself making a garbled noise -- 

A *desperate* noise -- 

He reaches for her *face* -- 

She *looks* at him, expression sharply amused, and he wants to hear what she's saying to him, wants to know it, respond, *discuss* -- 

"*Please*!" 

She closes her eyes and shivers -- 

"Don't -- don't *close* --" 

She *opens* her eyes and *slurps* around him -- 

He bucks -- 

She coughs lightly, frowns, and focuses on the head of his cock for long moments, lapping and *suckling* -- 

Gabriel whines and *shakes* -- 

*Yanks* at the sheets -- 

She *studies* him -- 

Nods -- 

And then starts *stroking* the base of his cock with that hand, stroking him roughly, meanly -- 

"I love you! I *love* you -- oh --" 

She pulls off, but never stops stroking him, never -- "Gabriel. I love everything about you save for your habitual dishonesty. That -- and only that -- will make me turn away from you," she says, and looks into him, *into* him -- 

He groans and stares -- 

He tries -- 

He tries to say *something* -- 

She nods again -- and never stops *stroking*. "We both know that there were many things you did not *quite* say to me tonight. I am willing to wait -- for now. You are entirely correct that we do not know each other very well -- yet. But this desire you have for me --" 

"*Love* --" 

"This *desire* you have for someone *like* me to *accept* you --" 

"Michael, *please* --" 

"Gabriel. One night without lies. And then, perhaps, we can talk of love," she says, squeezing his cock *viciously* before taking him in -- 

Sucking hard -- 

Sucking so *hard* -- 

And Gabriel has to cup her beautiful face -- 

Has to hold her perfectly *dissecting* gaze, because it's still warm, because it's still his, because -- 

Because she didn't *want* to, but she damned well gave him a test to perform. A *standard* to *best*. 

She wants him to best it. 

She wants him to be *good* enough, and -- 

And Gabriel is shaking all over as he grips her by the hair, shaking like a *leaf* -- "I'll show you, Michael," he says, and he's growling under his breath -- 

Fucking his way into her mouth, slow and hard -- 

*Hard* -- 

She gulps once, twice -- 

Again -- 

She moves her hand and takes him *in*, eyes going heavy-lidded and *hazy* -- 

"Oh, Michael, I -- you'll see. Everything. Everything *about* me. Everything about -- about my *dreams*," he says, and gives it to her faster -- 

Harder as she groans in her chest -- 

Harder as she *drools* -- 

"There's nothing -- nothing --" 

Gabriel pants -- 

Pants and shudders and *grinds* in -- in and *in* -- "*Nothing* --" 

But he can't keep grinding. He has to fuck her. Has to -- 

He does just that. Holds her still with one hand and *gives* it to her -- 

She nods as much as he *allows* her to do -- 

"*Mine*. You're -- and I'll show you. I'll show you that all of it was meant. That -- my -- even if it scares *both* of us --" 

Her eyes *focus* -- 

"Even if it makes you *want* to -- to *run*," he says, and doesn't stop -- 

He won't *stop* -- 

He won't *stop*, even though there are questions in her eyes, even though -- "I won't -- I *won't*," he says, and "It's *yours*, Michael!" 

She shivers -- and *grips* his balls, squeezing and working and -- 

He shouts helplessly and *shoves* into her throat -- 

She squeezes *harder* -- 

And the scream chokes itself to a whistle in Gabriel's throat as he spills and spills, as his cock *spasms* in Michael's throat -- 

She swallows -- 

He gasps and spills *more* -- 

She pushes him out -- but not far. Not -- 

She *slurps* around him, and this time the scream makes it out of him, this time -- 

And he spills *again*, he's gripping her, starting to *fuck* again, trying to do it shallowly, only *shallowly* -- 

She's *moaning* around him -- 

Sucking and slurping more *purposefully* -- 

"Michael -- *Michael* --" 

And her eyes, when she looks at him again, are *blazing*. 

"*Please*!" 

She gives him a *curious* look for about half a heartbeat -- and then she bares her teeth and slowly, *slowly*, *scrapes* her way up and up and *up* -- 

Gabriel screams *again*, spasming dry and helpless in her mouth, helpless in her touch, helpless to her -- 

Always. 

*Always* -- 

He collapses on his back and pants, staring up at the ceiling and -- not entirely mindless. Not --

Entirely. 

He knows exactly how much shit he's going to be in -- 

"Gabriel..." 

\-- if he doesn't give Michael what she needs from him. 

She crawls up the bed and rests beside him on her side, head on one fist while the other hand moves on his chest -- not possessively enough. Not -- 

Gabriel winces. "You need more from me." 

She frowns. "I need --" 

"You need -- me. The real me. The person who I am behind -- every mask and lie and --" He scrubs a hand down over his face, wondering, idly, if the Gabriel Lorca from this universe had really been the sort of man to keep his beard perfectly depilated more often than not. He is *now*, but -- 

"I need you, yes," Michael says, quiet and sure, and -- 

Gabriel can damned well cut off the babble before it starts. He turns to her, and meets her eyes. "I have -- one more day of lies. First, I mean." 

She starts to draw back -- 

He grips her arm -- firmly. He doesn't even try for unbreakable. "Not to you. I -- you know Cornwell will be here." 

She frowns. "What does that have to do with... us," she says, and there's knowledge growing behind her eyes, *hurt* -- 

Gabriel shakes his head once. "It's not like that. Cornwell and I -- *Katrina* and I -- were never lovers. Not the way --" He winces and shakes his head again. "Not that way. She was -- is -- much, much more of a comrade-in-arms." 

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Would *she* have considered the matter that way?"

Gabriel smiles wryly. "They weren't friends, but... they worked together easily and well, when they had to --" 

"But you said your lover was not -- Starfleet," Michael says, and stops. And looks at him. 

Into him. 

Into -- 

And there is no bed beneath Gabriel, and no ship around him, no artificial atmosphere -- "She wasn't," Gabriel says, firmly, *honestly*, and holds Michael's gaze -- and her wrist. 

She frowns. "What aren't you saying, Gabriel." 

He brings her hand to his chest -- 

Covers his pounding *heart* -- 

*Holds* it there -- 

"Gabriel --" 

"I'm not Starfleet, Michael." 

"What --" 

"I'm not from this universe, at all." 

"What are you --" 

"I don't *belong* --" He shakes his head. "I'm Gabriel Lorca, and I'm a starship captain, but I'm a fuck of a lot of other things, too -- in *my* universe. Where Starfleet doesn't *exist*. Where the *Federation* doesn't exist. Where --" 

"But. I exist," Michael says, and swallows with a click. 

And stares at him with mounting *horror*. 

She -- 

"No," he says. "*You* don't." 

"*Gabriel* --" 

"In *my* universe, Michael Andreas Burnham was adopted -- by Philippa Georgiou --" 

Michael *grunts* --

"-- when she was *four*, after her parents were brutally murdered --" 

"By -- by Klingons --" 

"No," he says, quietly. "By the Terran Imperial Security Service -- which, at that time, was *headed* by Philippa. Your human parents were suspected dissidents. *Rebels* against the Imperial order. That's all the information we were ever able to get about them -- Philippa erased them pretty damned thoroughly." 

"I -- I --" 

"And then she raised you. As *her* daughter. The daughter of an Imperial head of the secret police who fully intended to -- and did, eventually -- become the Emperor. She taught you... oh, everything a person *could* need to know in a situation like that, Michael -- up to a point." 

"What -- does that mean," she says, and stares -- 

And stares -- 

But she's taking this in. 

All of it. "You believe me." 

"You have -- tells. I know when you are lying to me."

"I'd love to hear about them --" 

"No. Tell me --" 

"You know what I'm going to say, Michael --" 

"*Tell* me!" 

"Murder -- wholesale murder. Torture. Cannibalism --" 

"*What* --" 

"We *eat* our enemies in the Empire, Michael -- and some of our slaves, too. The ones who taste good enough when *stewed*, anyway --" 

"*Don't* --" 

"This is where I come from, Michael. This --" 

"You -- you said you wanted to take me *home*!" 

Gabriel winces and -- stops. And nods. "I wanted -- I thought I wanted -- to... start everything over again. To have *a* Michael at my side to march with into the Empire and -- take over. Install *myself* as Emperor with you as my Consort --" 

"*No* --" 

"No," he agrees. "That's not -- that's not what either of us want," he says, and feels himself -- drained. 

Bleeding. 

*Bleeding* -- 

She studies him with wild, near-panicked eyes -- 

She may or may *not* realize she's holding her free hand in a *strike* position -- 

"Gabriel. What do you *think* we want." 

"I think *you* -- still -- want me to be honest with you," he says, and raises an eyebrow. 

She inhales sharply. 

He nods. "*I* want... I've dreamed of introducing you to my grandmothers," he says, and smiles ruefully. "They -- they aren't..." He shakes his head. "It's still not the Federation. It's not -- I know it's not -- but we have a farm, and... a lot of old books. *Real* books. We raise pigs, and goats. Nana Emilia *personally* raises dogs, and never actually sells any of them --" 

"And they let you be abused." 

He winces. "They knew -- they knew what I *needed* to know, what I needed to *learn* if I was going to advance --" 

"Gabriel," she says. Just that. 

Just -- that. He nods -- but he refuses to look away. "This world -- this *universe* -- is so different. So... but. I'd stay here for the rest of my *life* if it meant I could have you." 

She squeezes her eyes shut, pressing her fingertips to her temples -- but. 

She doesn't try to free her other wrist. She -- 

"Tell me -- how I am --" 

"Different? You --" 

"The *same*," she says, opening her eyes and *blazing* at him again. 

Gabriel takes a breath -- and nods. "You're brilliant like she was -- but you've had a lot more freedom to study a lot more things. It's -- hard to judge." 

"What else." 

"You're *ruthless* like she was. I --" 

"What else." 

Gabriel thinks about it, calling up hoarded memories of his Princess and holding them up against his hoarded memories of *this* Michael, and -- 

"*Gabriel* --" 

"I'm not -- I'm not stalling," he says, and gives himself to her. 

Just -- gives himself. 

"You were -- are -- two different people." 

She frowns... and reaches for her hair almost absently. 

"You wore your hair... exactly the same way. Though, on formal occasions, she would occasionally brush hers out, or tame it into looser curls to mimic Philippa's style." 

She blushes. 

Gabriel shudders -- and smiles ruefully. "You've thought of doing just that."

"I've *thought* -- of being her daughter," she says, and balls her free hand into a much less competent fist than her usual. 

"That doesn't surprise me." 

"And yet you say we are different people." 

Gabriel inclines his head. "The Philippa who existed here... would never have thought to murder people for wanting a free and open media --" 

"I." 

"-- or kidnap those people's child only to teach her to treat her fellow sentient beings like things to be stepped on, tortured, manipulated, used, consumed, and/or discarded --" 

"I..." 

"-- *or*..." And Gabriel lets himself smile wryly again. 

Michael winces again. "Please -- tell me." 

"*Your* Philippa? Never would've hired -- *assigned* -- a man like *me* to take over the lion's share of her fourteen-year-old daughter's education when said daughter had grown into... into the next thing to a lifeless, soulless, murdering automaton." 

Michael doesn't wince again for that. 

Michael just -- looks at him, long and hard. 

*Deeply*. 

She sees him. 

She knows him, and -- he can be brave. 

"The answer is yes." 

"When she was -- fourteen." 

"Yes." 

She cocks her head to the side, lips pressed together *hard* -- and then she parts them again. "Why, Gabriel? If she was so *lifeless*." 

"Because I taught her *not* to be, Michael. And when she laughed for me -- for *me* --" 

"Like -- like a *child* -- oh --" 

"When she *laughed* for me, she taught me what my purpose in that world was. Then and -- not forever," he says, and his laugh is a cry. "Nothing lasts forever, does it, mm?" 

"Gabriel --" 

He presses her hand to his chest again. "I know what my purpose is here, too, Michael --" 

"*Gabriel* --" 

"Now, I'll admit that it *took* me a while --" 

"*Stop*." 

He obeys. 

He breathes. 

He -- breathes. 

Her eyes are wild and desperate and -- and he wouldn't be himself if he let up on her. 

They both *know* that, don't they?

*Don't* they?

He lifts her hand to his mouth and *licks* the palm. "Michael. This -- is who I am." 

"I -- am beginning to see," she says, and she's not blinking nearly enough. 

He smiles again. "In the end, though... all you *really* need to know is that I'm the man who loves you, and needs *you*, and who will do anything and *everything* it takes to *have* you," he says, and raises an eyebrow.

"You..." She frowns. "How did she die. Truly." 

"We were running after a *semi*-successful strike on Philippa's forces. We were about sixty percent certain that Philippa didn't know that Michael had turned on her in favor of me, but we weren't taking any chances -- or we thought we weren't. 

"We'd stopped to rest planetside in the outer reaches of what *had* been the Klingon Empire, but was now the property of Terra. It was still a little more wild than systems closer to Sol, though. A little more... open.

"Safe enough, we thought. 

"We got three restful, blissful days and two restful, blissful nights. On the third night, Philippa strafed most of a *continent* for the crime of harboring us. Michael was --" 

"In -- the bathtub. With you. I..." Michael swallows again -- and looks at him with hurt in her eyes. With -- 

"Don't --" 

"Gabriel --" 

"Don't *pity* me --" 

"I do *not*, but..." She smiles ruefully. "You did not receive the proper counseling." 

"I -- what?" 

She twists her hand free of his and then moves both hands to his face -- 

Cups his *face* -- 

"Gabriel, I -- you were counseled, after *this* universe's Gabriel lost the _Buran_ \-- or. Did...?" 

"I was running on my universe's _Buran_ , we hid in an ion storm -- or tried to. It -- I still don't *know* what happened, not entirely --" 

She nods. "It's -- Starfleet has very specific *protocols* for how officers are to be counseled for what sorts of trauma *when* --" 

"I *know* -- that," he says, and frowns. "They -- absolutely would've tried to... if I'd said I was *involved* with someone on the _Buran_." 

"Yes, Gabriel." 

"They would've also *court-martialed* me --" 

"Possibly stripped you of rank," she says, and traces his eyebrows. "You would have, however, received the *proper* counseling." Her tone is cool, lofty, downright *snooty* -- 

Her eyes are sparkling, nearly *hectic* with mirth -- 

She -- is. 

"Just how long *are* you planning to try to keep that straight face, mm...?" 

"Captain. I was raised on *Vulcan*." 

"Uh-huh," he says, and gives those nipples a -- gentle -- tweak -- 

She makes a noise like a strangling crow -- 

Grins at him so *brightly* -- but. 

Her eyes widen again. 

"Michael...?" 

"I -- have abruptly realized *why* you have needed so little *guidance* from me in order to know how to *please* me --" 

"No." 

"*Gabriel* --" 

"No," he says, again. *Firmly*. "The fact that the same *sorts* of things pleased her..." He shakes his head. "It wasn't the same. It didn't --" He shakes his head *harder*. 

"How certain are you that you are not *fooling* yourself?" 

"I'm certain because." He squeezes his eyes shut, and -- "I'm certain because I wanted, most often, for her to *use* me until I *broke*." 

"I. You don't want that with me." It's not quite a question. Still too close to one.

"I don't want to break with you, Michael," he says. "I don't --" He opens his eyes and -- leans in enough to rest his forehead against hers. "I'm tired. Of breaking." 

She shivers.

After a moment, she wraps strong arms around him, and they hold each other right there, on the bed, up on their knees. 

He squeezes her and breathes *in* -- 

"Gabriel... what did *you* do in the Empire." 

He smiles wryly. "Other than the pederasty, you mean...?" 

"Other than that, yes," she says, and -- 

He kisses her shoulder. "I worked my way up. *Because* I didn't try to join the military -- and the military *is* the government in the Empire -- until I was extremely well-educated *and* extremely difficult to kill, I slipped in at a higher rank than most. That meant I had knives aimed at me from the very beginning. 

"It seemed, for a while, like I was murdering people every hour of every day. Like there was an assassin behind every curtain. There wasn't, but -- I picked up an extremely healthy amount of paranoia. 

"I was marked for my skills, and my ability to kill *discriminately*. That is, to be diplomatic about things. Not only was I judicious with my brutality, but I even left a few enemies alive -- when they were useful and it was reasonably safe to do so. 

"I showed I could be intelligent. I showed I could make deals. I showed I could be... a politician. 

"It didn't take long for Philippa to notice me. She was -- and is -- the smartest ruler the Empire's had in centuries, but she's not always -- or often -- the most delicate touch. 

"She tried, many times, to *find* people who could do that for her. Who could *be* that -- remember: The greatest art of management is delegation." 

"Yes, I -- no, go on --" 

"Mm, I -- she hid me in her sheath for... a while. Pretended I was just another one of her assassins. One a *little* closer to the seat of power than some others, but still not actually *close* --" 

"Did you. Were you..." 

He can feel her frown against his cheek. "Was I... oh. Philippa wasn't my type and I wasn't hers. She likes her men more... sculpted. Prettier. She likes her women... well. I always had my questions about that," he says, and lets it sit there. 

"Questions -- oh. I wasn't -- my Philippa and I didn't --" 

"But... you wanted to. Didn't you?" 

He can feel her blush.

He can *feel* her shift just a little uncomfortably and -- 

"We don't have to talk about --" 

"Of course I wanted to," she says, rueful and sad and amused -- countless other things. She buries her face in his throat. "When I did not want to *be* her, I wanted her to look at me with that particular *light* in her gaze which meant that she was thinking of how much she loved me, how happy she was to *know* me, how *proud* of me she was. And, then, I wanted her to do so *while I was performing cunnilingus on her*." 

Gabriel *coughs* a laugh -- "I -- sorry --" 

She squeezes him. "I believe I can guess... well. You have painted a very specific picture of *your* Philippa and how she related to your Michael." 

"Philippa wasn't mine and *you're* my -- please." 

She inhales -- 

"Please," he says, and squeezes her, kisses her ear -- "Please." 

"My Gabriel..." 

"*Yes*." 

"You would truly..." 

"*Anything*."

She tugs herself away and looks into him. *Into* him. "We must report this, Gabriel. You *know* that." 

"Michael, we're *winning* this war. They *need* us -- *both* of us --" 

"You... you are *teaching* me to believe that, but --" 

"No *buts* -- mm." He kisses the fingers on his mouth -- and raises an eyebrow.

"Gabriel. You have *also* taught me -- *very* effectively -- to look at the universe you came from with terror. What if the Gabriel Lorca from *this* universe is *trapped* there?" 

Gabriel -- shudders. 

"*Yes*, and --" 

He tugs her hand away from his mouth. "I think."

"You... think?" 

"I think... there's a way. To find out," he says, and it feels like dragging himself over cracked bones, feels like choking on Michael's blood, feels like -- 

"Gabriel...?" 

He squeezes her hand. "The spore drive. The jumps we've made. We are... mapping space. Parts of space that have never been seen. Parts of space which have, until now, only been... potentialities." 

She freezes. "This. This is why," she says, and tugs her hands back. Away from him. 

"Michael --" 

"This is why you wanted me to use the tardigrade until it *died* --" 

"I --" 

"This is why you've been *pushing* Paul to the point of --" 

"No --" 

"Gabriel. You will not lie to me in this moment," she says, and her voice is... hard. Nearly *empty*. 

What he deserves. He nods. "I *wanted* to bring you home -- before. The fact that I could *also* win the *war* with you -- that was gravy." 

"Gabriel..." And she's -- shaking her head. 

"My plans changed, Michael," he says, and smiles ruefully. "Before I knew they had. Before I -- my plans *changed*, and --" 

"And I stopped being a pawn you could move as you *would*, Gabriel?" 

"No, I -- you were never a *pawn* --" 

"What about everyone *else* on this ship?" 

He winces and -- covers his face. Just that. Just -- 

"I believe I will go --" 

"*Don't*," he says, dropping his hands, reaching out -- 

She looks at his hand. And then she looks at him like she's never seen him before. 

"Michael... I'm not Starfleet. I'm not --" He shakes his head. 

"Did you lead others -- no. You said you *were* the captain of a starship." 

"Yes, and --" 

"You did lead others. You were *responsible* for others' *lives*." 

"*Yes* --" 

"What of them, Gabriel? What do you *feel* for them? Is there anything, at all?" 

"Don't." 

"Is there even one solitary *fragment* of *emotion* within you for --" 

"You don't know what you're saying --" 

"Are you quite sure of that?" And she cocks her head to the side. "You have given yourself -- everything of yourself -- to *me*, and you have asked me to accept it --" 

"*Yes* --" 

"-- even though you know, perfectly well, that acceptance is a two-way *street*." 

He blinks. "I -- of course I accept *you* --" 

"Do you, Gabriel?" 

"*Yes* --" 

"My love?" 

"*Please* --" 

"My love for other *people*?" 

"I --" 

"My love for this *crew*, Gabriel?" 

"Michael --" 

"My love for this way of *life*?" 

Gabriel growls -- "I will give you *anything*, Michael. I -- up to and *including* the way to my own universe so that you can -- *we* can -- search for a Gabriel whose morality lines up a lot more *neatly* with your own." 

"I don't --" 

"But." 

She narrows her eyes. "But what." 

He can't stop himself from baring his teeth. "He won't be *me*, Michael. He won't be the man who loves you like *atmosphere* in *space*. He won't be the man you *own*. And he won't -- fuck -- *fuck*, *ignore* that," he says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

"Are you..." 

"Ignore --" 

"Gabriel, have you found a way to be jealous of a man *neither of us have met*?" 

"Well --" 

"You --" 

"When you put it that way, darlin', you make it sound like I've got a few *problems*," he says, and laughs -- 

The laugh is fucked from hell to *breakfast*, is what it is. 

He's still doing it. 

And she's looking at him like -- 

Like he's exactly as crazy as he is. 

Right up until *she* starts laughing. Just -- 

Laughing up and down the *scale* -- 

Laughing *wildly* -- 

Clutching her own *sides* -- 

*Smacking* him when he tries to hold her -- but letting him get her into his arms the *second* time. He -- 

"Gabriel -- *Gabriel* --" 

"I'm listening --" 

She laughs harder -- 

He kisses her cheek -- 

Licks away the tears of hilarity -- 

"I'm listening to everything you *say* –" 

"You have to know that this is -- this is not *healthy*!" 

"Mm, well, you're probably right about that," he says, and nuzzles her ear -- 

"Please, you --" 

He bites her earlobe -- 

She grunts -- 

"I don't know anything about healthy, Michael," he says. "I don't know anything about -- anything. But I know you... increasingly well," he says, and waits. 

"And." She pants -- 

She shudders -- 

"And... I am beginning to know you... very well, indeed." 

You see me. You *see* me -- "We can have this, Michael. I promise." 

"Gabriel..." 

"Shh," he says. "I'll teach you a lesson... a lesson I learned all kinds of different ways, over the years. I promise it's the truest thing I know." 

She shudders again -- and presses closer. "I am listening." 

He nuzzles her ear again and kisses -- 

Kisses -- 

"It doesn't have to be healthy. It doesn't have to be sweet. It doesn't have to be *anything* you *think* it *should* be --" 

"Gabriel --" 

"-- so long as it feels... just right," he says, and breathes just a little hot on her ear, licks her just a little *wet*. "Mm. How's that?" 

She makes that low noise, that dirty, hungry, *guttural* noise -- 

"Michael..." 

But, in the end, all she does is push him down to the bed and curl into his arms. So -- 

So *perfect* -- 

And when she shivers, it's the easiest thing in the world to pull the covers over both of them. To order the lights down lower and hold her -- 

*Hold* her -- 

"We. We must plan. What to say to the Admiral," she says, just a little haltingly. 

"And *we* will," he says. "Together." The way they always should be. 

He turns and kisses the top of her head -- 

"Sleep for a little while first, though, Michael. I've got an alarm set." 

She's silent for long moments, and, eventually, starts breathing slowly and evenly. 

Gabriel starts to drift on it, on warmth and her heartbeat and *comfort* --

She's alive in his *bed* --

"I think," she says, quietly, "that you would love me even if I were *entirely* unsuitable for you."

As opposed to just somewhat...? Gabriel laughs, just as quietly. "Tough to say... as you wouldn't *be* you." 

"Mm. I suppose... that you, of all people, would know best about that," she says, and caresses his chest with perfect possessiveness. "Dream peacefully, Gabriel." 

"And you, Michael. Always, always you." 

He can feel her measuring gaze on him in the dark as he slips down and out -- 

He can feel her weighing and *dissecting* -- and choosing him, too. Choosing him for herself, and for everything he can *do* for her.

He can feel her *seeing* him, clear and easy and perfect, just the way someone like her always should.

Just the way a -- a *Queen* like her always should, and the Federation may be done with royalty, but that doesn't mean that *they* have to be, that -- 

She *sees* him.

And, so long as *she* does, it's all right if he can't see a goddamned thing.

end.


End file.
